


The Anglerfish Problem

by GettingOverGreta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Body parts where they shouldn't be, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, F/F, F/M, Fantasizing, Femslash, For Science!, Hints of dubcon, Major Character Undeath, Masturbation, Mild Kink, My apologies to marine biology, Not IRB-approved, Oral Sex, Pheromones, Vaginal Sex, What Have I Done, even a sort of corpse, you shouldn't do that with a corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 33,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5683141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GettingOverGreta/pseuds/GettingOverGreta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt: </p><p>Molly is infected with a genetic modifier that causes Sherlock to be extremely attracted to her pheromones. </p><p>She thinks this is groovy until he physically attaches himself to her and atrophies into a parasitic sack of gonads ready to impregnate her when her body is ripe.</p><p>No really, that's it. That's the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone prompted this on the kink meme a loooong time ago and I've been chipping away at the story ever since. I definitely have to say it's the most challenging prompt I've ever filled. Many thanks to the Sherlolly fans who kept reading despite my painfully slow pace...and perhaps despite their better judgment.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry. Just saying so up front. 
> 
> Set post-TRF. Written before the events of S3 and TAB.

Everything began the day the body with the strange wound came into her mortuary. The young man had staggered out of a cab in front of Bart's and collapsed on the pavement, only to die an hour later in A & E, the doctors there mystified by his symptoms, as well as by an unusual, half-healed wound in his side and a swollen growth in his lower abdomen.

Molly had been focused on getting a sample of the necrotic tissue around the wound, which was oddly striated in color, when the swelling abruptly burst, splattering blood and fluids in her direction.

Molly was accustomed to repellent things but at the moment she could barely hold down the urge to gag. The rest of the autopsy could wait until tomorrow, because now she had to find out what this was. And probably file some kind of horrid incident report paperwork. She wiped the fluid off her neck, dropping the cloth into the biohazard disposal bin.

When John Doe was secured in his drawer, Molly packed up the samples she needed to take to the lab. It was bad enough to feel personally invested in the tests, but she also felt like she'd never be clean again.

Naturally, at that moment, Sherlock Holmes appeared for the first time in over two months.

 _Lovely_ , Molly thought with a sigh. All she wanted was a shower and now Sherlock would be distracting her for hours. Then Molly thought a bit harder about what was happening – it really had been a long day.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Molly hissed at Sherlock, tugging him into her small office space, away from the window. "You can't just pop up here, people will recognize you!"

"You're the first to notice, actually," Sherlock replied. "Now tell me about the body you had for autopsy this afternoon."

Molly shrugged. "South Asian male in his late twenties to early thirties. Unusual scarring around a wound in his side – I thought he was stabbed but the wound is strange, jagged. And there was this very odd growth in his abdomen –it burst."

"Burst?" Sherlock leaned forward in the chair – her chair – that he had already occupied. "And were there any – unusual findings?"

"Some kind of sac of fluid? Rather disgusting. You do see gases make a corpse move occasionally but that was unusual. Why are you interested anyway?"

Sherlock studied her briefly, then began flipping through her file. "He was working for one of Moriarty's associates. An associate who used to work at a government research facility."

Molly's stomach dropped in panic. "Was it – some kind of biological weapon?"

"Don't know. Doesn't seem to have been. Why?"

"Some of that fluid, it sprayed on me, got past my kit. I haven't had the chance to analyze it yet."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "What? Why not?"

Molly glared, as if it should have been obvious. "I was interrupted." 

"Then we'll examine it together." Sherlock looked out into the morgue. "I trust that at this hour we're likely to be alone?"

"Yes," Molly said, trying not to sigh. Time was, she would have thought that a splendid thing, but while worrying about Sherlock getting caught, it seemed like the worst idea possible.

Still, nothing had changed in light of Sherlock getting what Sherlock wanted. An hour later, Molly looked up from the microscope and gave Sherlock the bad news – there was no explanation for the strange swelling in the corpse's abdomen.

"Nothing. There's nothing coming up. No signs of bacterial infection, no spores or viruses. Nothing." Molly sighed. "Maybe he just had some vascular condition I've never seen before. There was quite a lot of blood."

"Hm," was Sherlock's succinct reply. He nudged Molly over to look in the microscope himself, and she tried not to wince at him touching everything in the lab. Not that she really expected anyone to be looking for his fingerprints anytime soon.

"Are you wearing perfume, Molly?" Sherlock asked, still gazing into the microscope like something would appear if he just waited long enough. Molly felt a deep blush creep into her skin beneath his fingertips, because apparently she had to compensate for Sherlock being awkward with additional awkwardness of her own.

"N-no. Why bother, I mean – there's no one –"

"No one to notice in here, no." Sherlock frowned and pulled away from the microscope.

"What's wrong?" Molly said, sounding more serious. She dared to gently touch his arm, forcing him to look at her. If something was distracting him, he could make a mistake, and Sherlock couldn't really afford a mistake. For a moment, he didn't answer, only looked at her with slight surprise.

"Would you take my pulse, please?" Sherlock asked, holding out his wrist. Molly blinked at him for a moment, then carefully took Sherlock's pulse. She frowned. 

"It's rather fast, actually," she said. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, his gaze on her swiftly approaching the creepy level. He looked to the side. "That is, to answer your question. I am not ill."

"Are you – worried about something?" Molly guessed, trying to think of reasons for a fast pulse and being "not ill."

"Hardly," he said. "It's probably nothing. And it's quite late – I'll accompany you home."

Molly was rather surprised by that – Sherlock had kept her late at work without concern plenty of times. But then everything in Sherlock's life had shifted when he leaped from the roof. He had very few things left to protect, and Molly supposed that she was one of them.

Even so, she didn’t expect accompanying her home to involve slipping his arm around her shoulders to walk beneath a shared umbrella. Although Molly supposed that it made him even harder to recognize. Nor did she expect Sherlock to invite himself into her flat – she would have, of course, but he swept into the room ahead of her, looking around for – whatever Sherlock looked around for when he was feeling paranoid. Intruders, she supposed. Toby eyed them both suspiciously before stalking off to the kitchen.

"Tea?" Molly asked, and followed Toby. She put on the kettle and busied herself with mugs and measuring. She expected Sherlock to look around her flat, perhaps switch on her telly but instead he followed her, watching her make tea in a galley kitchen as if it was some fascinating anthropological display.

"So," Molly said quietly. "How long do you need to stay?"

"Stay?" Sherlock blinked, as if he'd been distracted by something. "A few days, I suppose." He fiddled with a small whisk from the side of her sink, twirling it between his fingers like a tiny baton.

"Well that – that'll be, um, nice." Molly smiled, and Sherlock didn't, and she shrunk away awkwardly. She opened the cabinet to get them some biscuits and gasped as Sherlock appeared at her shoulder, reaching past her to pull down the box.

"Here," Sherlock said, somewhat gruffly. He didn't move away at that point, leaning back against the counter with a few inches between them.

"Thank you," Molly said, confused about why he wasn't moving away. Sherlock tended to be rather mindful of his personal space, if not of anyone else's. The kettle clicked off and Molly poured the water, eerily aware of Sherlock's gaze over her shoulder. She handed him his mug and scurried towards the living room, muttering something vague about getting some takeaway.

Sherlock followed her, and managed not to say anything insulting for the next ten minutes while she drank her tea and watched a talk show that seemed to be slightly perplexing to him. Once he had drained his own mug, he sank back into the sofa, then shifted his knees up, and Molly cleared her throat as she realized that he was about to stretch out regardless of her presence at the end.

"Oh. Of course. May I?" Sherlock asked, and Molly just stared for a moment.

"Yes, I suppose –" Molly didn't quite know how to finish the thought as Sherlock folded his long form to fit onto the couch and laid his head in her lap. Molly found herself slightly flummoxed by the entirely unexpected question of where to put her right hand – behind him was awkward, around him even more so. He shifted a little in her lap, trying to get comfortable and Molly noticed a little flicker at her core, probably just her hormones checking in to note his closeness. Sherlock squirmed against her thigh again, and thinking to soothe him, she touched his hair and hoped he didn't notice the trembling in her hand. He didn't protest, and she combed her fingers through the soft curls, smiling a little as Sherlock closed his eyes and made a noise Molly would have interpreted as blissful in anyone else. In Sherlock's case, she supposed it meant that the immediate moment was not completely boring. The whole thing was more than a little strange, but perhaps Sherlock was simply rather lonely. Even if he could spend days on his own without noticing, it was quite another thing to find oneself alone for weeks on end. Besides which, since moving in with John he had become used to company, and now he was deprived of it.

That said, John probably didn't sit around petting Sherlock's hair. Molly was not about to ask.

They watched the news, Sherlock muttering discontentedly about the reader's obvious gambling problem, and halfway through a story about the Greek financial crisis Molly was surprised to realize that she felt relaxed, and rather like she could just melt into the couch. Right up until the second that she remembered one of her original goals at the hospital had been to get a shower as soon as possible because of that disgusting bursting thing in a corpse's abdomen.

She took a breath. "Right. Sit up, Sherlock? I need to go shower."

"Now?" Sherlock's voice was distinctly rather whiny.

"Yes, now. Disgusting autopsy accident, remember?" He sat up just long enough to let her stand before flopping back onto the sofa. Molly hurried to the bathroom and proceeded to scrub herself silly. She dawdled in the bathroom, taking the time to blow dry her hair and brush her teeth. Maybe he'd go to sleep, if she left him alone long enough. Either that, or he'd just go through everything she owned deducing what little life she had.

With that simply delightful thought in her head, Molly rushed out of the bathroom, still wrapped in a towel because of course she'd left her bathrobe, pajamas, and anything else that could possibly be useful in her bedroom.

So naturally, Sherlock was seated on her bed waiting for her, knees drawn up to his chin and a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Did you need something?" Molly asked, clutching the towel to make sure it stayed closed. She glanced around the room, looking for anything out of place.

"I hardly need to go through your drawers at this point, Molly," Sherlock said calmly. "I've just been thinking about the research that man was involved with at the facility. About its purpose."

"And what was that? The purpose." She backed up a step as Sherlock leapt to his feet, and suddenly no more than a few inches separated them.

"Pheromones," Sherlock murmured, circling her like a wolf until he finally paused in front of her. "They were studying pheromones."

Molly swallowed. He was too close again. Far too close. "Pheromones. Undetectable scents - to make someone more attractive."

Sherlock smiled and swept his thumb along her collarbone and she shuddered. "Indeed, Molly. But also to make others more amenable. Imagine the power someone could gain if a person would do anything they asked."

"Imagine," Molly said softly, thinking of pretty much everything she'd ever done for Sherlock, and he smirked.

"I never had to cheat," Sherlock insisted, whispering in her ear, and Molly shuddered outright when he pressed a kiss to her neck, just below her earlobe. His arm sliding around her waist saved her from the humiliation of her knees giving way as his mouth curiously trailed down her neck. She hated to admit that she still fancied him like mad, but by the time he nipped lightly at the juncture of her neck and shoulder her breath sounded like an obscene phone call.

"Wait, Sherlock, what are you – " Molly paused with a little gasp when she realized Sherlock had backed her against the bed. And then her towel fell away. Instinctively she moved to cross her hands over her breasts, but Sherlock startled her by grabbing her wrists. He loomed over her, his gaze alone forbidding her from covering herself again.

That should not have been seductive. At all. But Molly felt the tug of arousal across her belly tighten, her mouth falling open a little as if every part of her body wanted to swallow him up. Which was alarmingly close to the truth, in all honesty. Sherlock bent and slipped his arm beneath her knees to sweep her up onto the bed properly, and smiled as he crawled over her. 

"This angle's much better, don't you think?" he asked calmly, and proceeded to trace the line of her clavicle with his mouth. "I believe your little – industrial accident may have exposed you to this particular experimental substance."

Molly trembled, grabbing onto the sheet because some part of her was afraid to touch him, make the reality of what he was doing sink in for him. "Experiment seems to have been successful," she replied with a squeak.

"Mm. Yes," Sherlock said vaguely, as he dipped his head to her breast and curled his tongue around one nipple while he flicked his thumb over the other. Molly arched into his touch and moaned softly, finally unable to resist threading her fingers into his hair. She shifted to slide her leg between his, noting a small grunt from his throat as her leg brushed against the spot where his cock was straining against his jeans.

"I love how you taste," he murmured, in that way that he talked in the lab when she wasn't exactly meant to answer. "It's like – rose petals and strawberries and sugar and, and, I don't know, Yorkshire pudding and tea."

Molly blinked at the ceiling, her brain temporarily noticing the oddness of Sherlock's ramblings. She was relatively certain she shouldn't have tasted like any of those things. Certainly not Yorkshire pudding. Pheromones that made you taste like – England? Someone was patriotic.

Then Sherlock's tongue swept along her navel and her belly and he knocked her thighs apart with one hand. And Molly knew despite how badly she wanted him to do whatever he was planning that this was a terrible idea.

"But this is – you're not – " Molly wanted to slap herself for it, but she sat up and touched Sherlock's cheek until he looked up at her. "This isn't real. It's as if you're – drugged or something."

Sherlock tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose. Isn't that interesting?"

"Interesting? Sherlock – " Molly froze when Sherlock lifted a finger to her lips.

"I'm not bored. And now I'm curious." He loomed over her, making her back up on the bed. "I like the taste of you, Molly. In fact, I like it so much, I need much, much more of it." She barely had time to shiver at the rumble in his voice before he kissed her forcefully, and added, "There's really no need for discussion." 

He stroked her thigh as he pulled away with a smile, then tugged her towards the edge of the bed as easily as if she was a doll. She watched as Sherlock fell to his knees and tasted a new path along her inner thigh. His fingers threaded through the thatch of curls between her thighs, parting her labia and making her squirm by blowing a little hiss of air over his skin. Then she felt his tongue, sweeping and probing over her sex before sucking on her clit. Molly knew from the ache inside her that she was growing wetter and wetter, and Sherlock was lapping up every drop he could, drinking her like she was nectar.

"Perfect," Sherlock whispered, his breath hot against her. Molly inhaled sharply as he pressed his tongue inside her, shifting to rub circles over her clit with his thumb. He noticed this, of course, and he imitated the motion with his tongue a moment later. Molly writhed against the duvet when he slid a long finger inside her with ease, but it wasn't quite enough.

"Use two," Molly groaned, "It's a bit more – oh, yes." Sherlock explored cautiously, his eyes darting up to watch her reactions to each place he tested. She nearly arched off the bed as Sherlock found the perfect spot to amplify the sensation of every stroke, pleasure spreading like wildfire through her body. He began alternating between flicking and stroking his tongue across her clit, and it was only when Molly found herself gulping for air that she realized she had forgotten to breathe. The rush of oxygen brought her climax through her body with a shudder. Sherlock looked decidedly pleased with himself, and clambered onto the bed, so that Molly found herself beneath a heap of jeans and slightly sweaty t-shirt.

"Take all of that off," Molly muttered, feeling rather like she was somehow drunk. "I'm not doing your laundry after, you know."

Sherlock laughed – actually laughed- and quickly doffed the clothes, tossing them to the floor. Molly stared at him because really, Sherlock was honestly, utterly nude and she needed to commit that to her memory. It was completely surreal, as if she hadn't entirely expected him to be a man like any other man under his coat and suits. Yet here he was, the smooth planes of his back leading into strong shoulders and long arms that wrapped around her as he kissed her again. He nipped at her throat and ground his erection against her belly, as if she could possibly have not gotten the hint.

Molly shifted to envelop him in her legs, as he dipped his head to lick a drop of sweat from the thin skin of her chest.

"Do you think it tastes like haggis and whiskey if you're from Scotland?" She asked idly. 

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock huffed.

"Oh, come off it. Haggis is always funny."

"Molly," he warned, and tweaked her nipple with just a little viciousness. Molly yelped and shuddered, clasping her legs just a little more tightly around him. Sherlock smiled at that, and Molly knew he was just storing it all away for later analysis.

Then Sherlock grasped his cock and pressed inside her, biting his lip to stifle the groan that tried to escape his throat. He didn't move right away, and Molly could feel his breath, hot against her ear. She kissed his neck and lightly traced the musculature of his back with her fingernails until he finally did something delicious with his hips and began to thrust. He moved shallowly at first, slowly pressing deeper until they couldn't possibly be closer. Molly could feel him on every inch of her skin, could breathe in nothing but his scent, taste only his kiss in her mouth. Sherlock moved with a musician's perfect rhythm, and Molly rolled her hips to meet every thrust. Already sensitized by Sherlock's mouth, her body responded even more quickly than before. She felt the flutter of internal muscles again as a rush of aching pleasure seemed to flood her entire body.

Her heart was pounding against her rib cage as she realized that it wasn't receding entirely, the ache not turning to oversensitivity right away. She felt like she was hovering on the edge again already...then gasped as another wave of pleasure washed over her. This never happened to her, ever. Hell, she was fairly certain it shouldn't have been possible in this position.

"Side effect," she wondered aloud. Sweetening the deal to make less than desirable attention more appealing, perhaps.

"What?" Sherlock slowed his pace, taken out of wherever he was by her speaking. 

"No, no - don't stop," she pleaded, "Not until you have to. Think about something else, just – don't stop."

Sherlock nodded, studying her, the hunger that she knew was written all over her face. Molly arched her back, grabbing the pillows beneath her head, and cried out, almost overwhelmed as another climax swept through her.

Molly was almost relieved when Sherlock swore and his steady rhythm faltered. His thrusts became frantic and uneven, and Molly tangled her hand in his hair as he buried his face against her neck. He was everywhere, filling every one of her senses, every inch of his skin touching her, his hoarse moaning beside her ear and the slick slap of every movement of his hips. His scent was delicious and Molly tasted him on her lips, unable to resist dragging her tongue along his throat. Sherlock finally came with a sort of violence, shuddering from head to toe. He looked surprised, she thought, which was a bit odd, but then it was rather surprising on her end, so she wasn't sure why it should be any different for him.

"That was quite - interesting," Sherlock muttered into her ear.

"Er. Yes," Molly replied, "I think I need to send your secret military research facility a thank you note."

"Jokes, Molly," Sherlock grumbled, but he kissed her neck and wrapped his arm around her. She turned her head to see his eyes, wanting to make a visual connection between his face and the fingers gently brushing against her side. There was something almost tantric about it, gazing into Sherlock's pale eyes as their breath merged into one slow, steady rhythm. She had never felt so content in her life, and yet part of her was buzzing, like she could feel every molecule of air pass over her skin. 

That couldn't last, of course, and Molly expected Sherlock to get up, steal all the hot water in her shower, and generally act like nothing had happened while he stole her laptop to record some sort of data. Instead he stayed beside her, skin pressed hotly against hers, long limbs heavily tangled up in her own. The stroke of his fingers slowed, and Molly thought he was falling asleep.

Except he wasn't really dozing off, Molly realized, because his eyes were open. Nor was he exactly looking at her so much as at a point somewhere around her ear. Her stomach dropped as she finally noticed what was missing.

Sherlock wasn't blinking.

Then to her utter horror Molly realized that he wasn't breathing. Before she could even move her mind raced from one catastrophic possibility to another – aneurysm to cardiac event to stroke.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried out, and tried to sit up, to push him off of her, but a sensation that she was trying to slice open her own abdomen stopped her. She gasped in pain, confused and increasingly terrified that this experiment was even worse than it had initially seemed. With a trembling hand she detected a weak, thready pulse in his neck, but when she tried again to get into a position to try CPR the excruciating pain tore through her again, worse than the first time.

"No. No," Molly said harshly to herself. "I can do this. There is no reason that I can't do this." She took a deep breath to steel herself and pressed her hand into his shoulder to lever him off of her.

With that attempt, the pain sharpened so acutely that Molly's vision swam before her eyes. The last words to pass her lips before she lost consciousness was to plead with Sherlock to wake up, to figure this out and put an end to what was obviously madness.


	2. Chapter 2

When Molly blinked her way back into consciousness, the first thing she did was glance to the side.

This wasn't happening. It wasn't – it made no sense, it couldn't be real. But as hard as Molly tried she couldn't wake herself up, with every blink the unimaginable horror was still there. Sherlock was beside her, warm to the touch but blankly staring into the distance. He didn't respond, didn't even blink, and when Molly tried to close his eyes she couldn't, as if some kind of rigor had set in and she was trapped with his gaze beside her head.

It was the skin she couldn't fathom, really, the bit that made her want to just scream and scream. It was at her hip, a spot where they should have been divided into two separate people but they weren't anymore, a patch of Sherlock's even paler skin somehow enmeshed with her own.

A blaring sound beside her made her gasp aloud. Her heart pounding, she reached over to slap her alarm clock into silence. Right, the world was still happening outside this room, and she was expected at work in ninety minutes. She picked up her mobile – mercifully on her nightstand, probably because Sherlock was poking around in it - and left a message for her supervisor, making noises about a stomach bug because that seemed the least likely to provoke questions. With any luck the struggle to keep her voice steady would add to her credibility.

With that small nod to reality, Molly's gaze fell back to Sherlock, or at least the shell of Sherlock. He looked perfect, unharmed. She didn't understand what had happened, what could have caused this monstrosity to occur. She was still trapped beneath his arm, and her eyes traced a line from his forearm, through his biceps and deltoids into his slim waist, trying not to look at the unnatural joining of their skin.

_You should probably stop staring. It doesn't seem to be useful and only increases your level of distress._

At the distinct sound of Sherlock's voice, Molly gave a start. No. Oh, no. She had gone mad. Clearly. That was the only possible explanation.

_Not mad, unfortunately. Although I am unclear on what exactly has occurred._

"If you aren't clear, we are obviously completely fucked," Molly snapped, "Because I have no idea what's happened here."

He sighed, somehow using Molly's entire body for the task, and it made her shiver.

_I appear to be – not alive, in the most precise sense of the term._

Molly struggled to hold in a mad sob. "So what – are you?"

_Uncertain. We do not exist after death, but I appear to still have some sort of consciousness._

"You're – a ghost?" Molly squeaked. It really was a horror movie.

_Oh, honestly, Molly._

"All right, fine. Not a ghost. But you're aware."

_Yes. A bit late to be embarrassed about nudity, isn't it?_

"Oh, shut up," Molly snapped, then winced. "Sorry, I'm – out of sorts just now."

_Hm. Understandably, I must admit._

They were both quiet for a moment, and Molly's voice was smaller and more frightened when she asked "What am I supposed to do?"

_I cannot say, Molly. I suspect you are going to have to wait to learn what the outcome of the experiment was intended to be._

The experiment. Right, the mysterious pheromone research. "Were there any clues about it? Anything at all?"

_Something about recombinant DNA, pheromones, and attraction. However, as you may have noticed on your patient, there appeared to be unpleasant side effects involved and no successful outcomes._

"None?" Molly forced herself to breathe, to try to think. "The man who – burst – he had a wound, near his hip. Very strange. But it matches the location..." Tentatively, she brushed the spot where she and Sherlock were joined with trembling fingers, and shuddered. "This happened, Sherlock, and they tried to stop it. But it killed him."

There was a pause before Sherlock responded. _Your dying would not be an acceptable outcome, Molly._

Molly vaguely scoffed. "I would hope not."

Another pause. _Yes, but I find that this opinion has – a greater weight at the moment, although I am unclear as to why._

"Not, er, sentiment, I suppose," Molly said weakly.

Sherlock sniffed derisively, which was more than a little strange to experience inside her own head. _Decidedly not, Molly._

"Thank you. Very comforting." She stared at the ceiling, swallowing down the urge to just start weeping uncontrollably. Sherlock would probably just point out that it wouldn’t be useful. Instead, Molly attempted to sit up, but found herself pinned to the bed, unable to drag Sherlock's considerable weight with her. 

"What am I – I can't move like this. I'll starve to death."

_I'm not certain that you will need to eat. At least until my resources are considerably more depleted._

Molly swallowed. "That's – exactly as disgusting as it sounds, isn't it?"

_Your body appears to be capable of absorbing the required amino acids for survival from my own._

"I'm – I'm eating you alive? Or – not alive. Oh, God." She felt her heart start to race as sweat broke out across her brow. 

_There is no need to panic, Molly. This is keeping you alive._ Another pause. _It is extremely important that you remain alive._

"Yes. You seem to be quite certain of that. I don't know why, you're dead and I was practically the only one who knew about you."

_And Mycroft, of course. God, I will never hear – or rather, I suppose you'll never hear the end of this._

Molly winced. Somehow she had not thought things could get worse than being part of some kind of hellish science experiment that ended with her pinned and immobile beneath the very deceased body of the man she'd fancied forever. Yet having to explain any of this to Mycroft Holmes would indeed be worse, especially if they were still in this position at the time.

_Perish the thought, Molly._

On finally comprehending that this was the reality of her situation, and that she was going to have to explain to Mycroft Holmes that she had somehow _fucked his brother to death_ , quite possibly with Sherlock still physically attached to her, Molly decided that the only appropriate response to the situation was, in fact, to start crying hysterically.

True, it wasn't what one would call useful. But it did make Sherlock so uncomfortable that he stopped talking for the next three hours.


	3. Chapter 3

Three hours, two minutes, and 35 seconds later, Sherlock spoke again.

_Bored._

"I can't exactly do anything at the moment," Molly growled. "You're going to have to live with a lot of bored. My life is boring." Until right about now, and she could have cheerfully spent her life without this particular bit of excitement.

_You could experiment. For me._

"Experiment on what? Did you miss the part where I can't actually get out of bed?"

_No._

"Then what kind of – oh." Molly unsettlingly felt her fingers wiggle on her belly without her actually doing it. "Don't do that, it's creepy."

Sherlock complied. _So you understand my request._

"Of course I – Sherlock, this is hardly the time for that!"

_We have plenty of time, as you have pointed out. And I would like to test the limits of our sensory connection, now that we have established that it exists._

"By doing – that?!" Molly had no idea when she had lost the ability to speak like a normal person. Possibly around her third orgasm last night.

_Why not? We have been intimate already. It would be an interesting experience._

Molly felt her head spin as her emotions swung from disgust to the faintest hint of arousal. The pheromones, perhaps, still playing tricks on her mind, or her body simply responding to the sound of Sherlock's voice, suggesting inappropriate things.

_My voice?_ Molly's eyes widened. She really wasn't going to have a private thought ever again, was she? _If you enjoy my voice, Molly, I'm certain that I can –_

"No. Don't even. I am not doing that, Sherlock. I'm not a – a specimen." 

_No. Certainly not a specimen. Participant, I should think._

Molly shivered despite herself. She could feel Sherlock smile, his pleasure at finding an amusement seemed to twist through her nerves, racing along her spine. 

_I imagine you thought of me often in this bed, Molly. I want to know exactly what you did about it. Show me._ The growing ache between her thighs told Molly she was growing wetter for him, even before she touched an inch of her skin. _That would be an interesting experiment, to see if I can bring you to orgasm on words alone,_ Sherlock noted. _But not the one that interests me right now._

Molly nodded and closed her eyes. It would be easier like this, if she couldn't see him, even if she could still feel the weight of him half-draped over her body. She slipped her hand down her belly, shivering as she pressed her fingers into her slick folds. She bent her leg outwards, giving herself room to circle the slippery pearl of her clit and felt Sherlock hum with approval at the pleasure that sparked through her. Molly slid a finger inside herself curiously and winced – too sore for that, then. Fine then, she'd stick with a surface approach, clumsily trying to press on her pubic bone with the palm of her hand as her hips weakly rose against Sherlock's weight. 

_This isn't your usual technique_ , Sherlock abruptly said, and Molly gasped in surprise. _Of course I'm right_ , Sherlock added, before Molly could even say it. _Your movements are awkward and you are clearly unaccustomed to this angle._

"Sherlock, stop." Molly took a breath and considered the situation. "I wonder if I can – " Molly dragged up as much strength as she could and rolled herself and Sherlock's body over so that he lay beneath her, his long leg pressed between hers. Her arm prickled with renewed circulation and she noticed that he wasn't quite as heavy as he'd seemed a few hours ago. Her eyes glanced over his torso and she swallowed, trying not to let herself think about how beautiful he was, even dead. Dead, oh God, did this make her – no, best not to think about it. 

_Molly. Let me feel it._

She started to grind against his thigh (and oh God, his skin was still so warm and it shouldn't have been, what was happening here?), rocking her hips until she could get just the right amount of pressure against her clit. She let her head fill with the fantasies she'd entertained since she met him – being bent over her desk as Sherlock fucked her, Sherlock going down on her in the back of a London cab. Then the ones she thought of as really dirty, the ones she saved for her own bed because if Sherlock had even come close to deducing them she would have wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Being blindfolded and spread out on his kitchen table as he experimented on her, stretching her cunt with toys and testing sensations with everything from a feather to his riding crop. Sherlock whispering deductions to her in a crowded nightclub while his clever fingers teased her beneath her skirt. And when her pelvic muscles tightened with pleasure her mind focused on the best one, the sure-fire finisher that left her gasping for breath every time. Her climax broke in a flutter of muscles and Molly collapsed, panting with her cheek against Sherlock's unmoving shoulder. 

_John and I at once? Really?_

"Shut up, Sherlock," Molly muttered. Christ. Her abdomen was practically twitching. 

_You never indicated any interest in John._

"It's just a fantasy! It doesn't have to reflect real life. You never showed any interest in me, either. Until – yesterday." 

_Hm. Also I imagine you don't usually have a leg to work with in here._

"I usually use a pillow," Molly replied, wishing she could hide her face in one right now. And possibly smother herself with it. 


	4. Chapter 4

A few hours later, she looked at Sherlock again. His corpse was definitely thinner, looking more and more like he had when she first laid eyes on him, when his recovery from drug addiction was more of a burgeoning thing. She had seen him dashing about in Bart's, still working on getting access at that point.

Molly felt strange, devastated on one hand and eerily alive on the other. Sherlock pointed out that her heart rate and blood pressure were slightly elevated, even while she slept, and that while she was not eating or excreting anything, her body continued to maintain a perfect electrolyte balance. It would have been completely fascinating if it weren't so horrifying. She was able to struggle into a sitting position by the end of the day, if she curled Sherlock's body around her like a repulsive duvet. 

To make everything more surreal, the rest of her bedroom remained utterly normal. Her book, mobile, and alarm clock were still in place on the nightstand, a basket of laundry she'd meant to wash last night sat by the door. Only Sherlock's rumpled clothes tossed across her floor gave any indication that something unusual had taken place. With this thought in mind, Molly gulped down her birth control pill with the last swallow of water from the carafe on her nightstand, telling herself that she needed to preserve some small sense of normalcy.

_You do realize that's a placebo._

"Oh, hush," Molly replied, and shifted some of Sherlock's weight across her body. Routine, that was what she needed, even if nothing could be less routine than this. She cradled his head against her shoulder, stroking her hand down his thinning arm. Rigor mortis had never kicked in for some reason, and his body remained warm even as the weight loss became more apparent. She wondered if her own circulatory system was powering his now, if that was why his body remained warm despite the lack of a heartbeat pushing the blood through his system.

_Interesting conclusion, Molly._

"Thank you," Molly said softly, and gently combed Sherlock's hair into place. She had already tried several times to close his pale, glassy eyes, but for some reason the lids refused to stay in place.

_May I ask why you are caressing a corpse? I was under the impression that your sexual interests were rather more standard in nature._

"I am not – it's not a corpse. Well it is, I suppose, but...you obviously know this is strange, Sherlock. I think I'm still in shock." Sherlock seemed to take that into consideration.

_Do you need a blanket?_ Molly gave a sad little laugh.

"No, thank you. I don’t think I could get to one anyway." She bit her lip, trying not to think too hard about why she couldn't get out of bed just yet. "What sort of DNA were they mucking about with then? Because this is really not a side effect anyone would appreciate."

_I could never get to the information_ , Sherlock complained, and Molly frowned. They really were on their own now.

For the next 24 hours, Molly periodically monitored the changes in Sherlock's body. He was growing lighter and thinner while the wasting muscle was making her stronger, satiating the basic needs of her body. She and Sherlock had an extended conversation over the course of several hours regarding the decomposition rates of bodies that had been frozen while she watched his bicep sink into his humerus. It was possibly the longest exchange of words she'd ever had with him and the least insult-laden.

_I never intended to hurt you, Molly_ , Sherlock whispered as she drifted into sleep once more.

When Molly awoke again, something had distinctly changed. Sherlock's body was still there, albeit shrunken and skeletal. Some of his beautiful hair had fallen out, littering the sheets. His lips were dry and cracked, but Molly soon realized that was only a symptom of a larger problem, his skin overall seemed to be flaking.

Moreover, something was happening that had not occurred for at least 36 hours, which was that Molly desperately needed the loo. She could sit up, she realized, and Sherlock's body mass had shrunken such that she could, in fact, stand up in a very wobbly manner.

_I would tell you to be careful but the point seems rather moot_ , Sherlock droned, as Molly slowly shuffled towards the bathroom. He wasn't terribly heavy (although Molly supposed the effect was still like carrying numerous sacks of potatoes) but he had not lost much of his height, forcing Molly to drag him along a bit.

Of course, when she arrived, she realized that she couldn't possibly use the toilet in this condition, and she seriously considered bursting into tears again. Instead she took a breath and considered what her options were. Bottle, perhaps, but there weren't any available in the bathroom. The sink was too high – but the shower, yes, hardly ideal but it would do the trick for now. She turned on the water and managed to get both of them into the cramped space.

The uncomfortable pressure on her bladder finally relieved, Molly reached for her shampoo, awkwardly opening the bottle with her arms around Sherlock's body. This was decidedly not how she had imagined sharing a shower with him.

_Is there any surface in this apartment you have not debased with some sexual fantasy, Molly?_

"Shut up," Molly muttered. She wedged Sherlock's body against the tile wall and lathered up her hair. "Just because something comes to mind doesn't mean you have to say it to me, you know."

_Perfectly_. Sherlock was quiet for a moment. _You don't have a handheld shower head. I thought you would find that useful._

Molly gritted her teeth as she wiggled around to rinse her hair. "No, Sherlock, I do not. And I do spend time doing things besides – that."

Sherlock replied bemusedly, _I meant for bathing your cat._

"Toby!" Molly blanched. How could she have forgotten? Suddenly she was terrified, poor Toby, left without food the whole day. Maybe two. She'd lost track. She tried to finish the rest of her shower as quickly as possible, and briefly considered if she should exfoliate Sherlock before deciding it was probably a dreadful idea. She stumbled out of the shower and tried to dry both of them off before concluding that she couldn’t begin to put on clothes.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the cooler air of the living room to find Toby waiting for her. Not surprisingly, he backed up, hissing and fluffing out his fur like she was a monster. And she realized that essentially, she was. She dragged herself into the kitchen to put out Toby's food, and was trying to turn herself around in her tiny kitchen when she slipped on a catnip mouse on the tile floor. Molly shrieked as she and Sherlock crashed to the floor. His body, such as it was, cushioned her fall, but Molly heard a sickening crunch.

She peeked down and saw that Sherlock's leg was askew, as no leg should be. His tibia and fibia had snapped like twigs.

_Possibly hollow_ , Sherlock commented flatly.

"Bird bones," Molly whispered, uncertain where the thought had come from. She didn't want to get off the floor now. It seemed like too much trouble to make the slog back to her bedroom, and she didn’t exactly feel like turning on the telly at this point. She curled up on the floor, her fingers going over a small patch of skin just below Sherlock's ribs that showed no signs of decay yet.

_You need to get up, Molly._

"No, I don't. I fed the cat. I don't have anywhere to go. This is fine."

_Lying on the floor isn't going to solve anything. It's foolish._ Sherlock sounded like an uncomfortable urgency had set in for him. Molly thought perhaps he'd just noticed exactly how bad the situation was and realized in seeing his own body atrophied and shrunken that this was no longer an intriguing adventure. He was dead, and there would be no joyous reunion, no triumphant return for him.

"It might be foolish but it's all I want to do right now," Molly snapped. Sherlock stopped arguing, and Molly rested on the tile until she felt far too cold to remain there.

She sat up, slumped against the refrigerator (which wasn't helping with the cold) and finally noticed that she was hungry. It felt like an age since she'd been hungry – she didn't even remember eating the other night when she brought Sherlock home. And she hadn't felt like lunch after the disgusting fluid incident.

_There is very little left to consume, Molly._

"Yes. Unfortunately I suspect that also applies to the inside of the refrigerator." She hauled herself to her feet, Sherlock's body hanging limply from her arm, and carefully opened it. There was food, but most of it required real cooking, and Molly wasn't sure she could manage that with Sherlock too. Finally she noticed a curry container from Saturday – she was fairly certain it was still edible. She pulled it out and poked at it, checking for mold and any hint that it had gone off, but it seemed fine. She grabbed a plate from the cabinet and scooped out the chicken korma with some rice, popping it into the microwave.

"Never thought I'd be grateful for such a tiny kitchen," Molly murmured to herself. She felt slightly better once she had eaten, and even managed to go back and brush her teeth. She couldn't put on her dressing gown but she did gather up her duvet and wrap it around the both of them as she settled onto the couch and picked up the remote.

_Midsomer Murders? Really, Molly._

"Okay, fine. I'll flip through, tell me if you see anything you like." She switched channels until finally landing on a rerun from earlier in the day of some awful chat show.

The day continued that way, Sherlock offering commentary on anything she turned on at the time. He even tolerated Masterchef (although he indicated that their background checks must be dreadful) and Molly didn't think he had much interest in food.

She nodded off and woke up to find an absolute mess of fragile skin hanging from her body. Molly had no idea what to do...she couldn't even recognize Sherlock in the mass of tissue. There was an edge of panic mounting in her brain and then something else. Something calming. Something telling her that everything was going to be fine, not in so many words, but more like a heavy dose of benzodiazepines that she knew she hadn't taken.

"What's happening to me?" Molly whispered, hating how scared she sounded.

_I am uncertain, Molly._ Sherlock's voice pushed through the hypnotic fog around her, even as she felt like she was slipping into a trance deeper than sleep. _I will be here. I promise._

And so she let go.

Toby batted her face when a hazy sunlight filled the living room. She'd missed the whole day, Molly realized blearily, sitting up on the couch, still wrapped in her duvet.

But wait. Something was missing. Something had changed. Sherlock.

Molly threw open the duvet, gasping as she realized he was gone. And then frowning when she realized that a new problem had popped up.

"Are you bloody joking?" Molly poked at the odd, pinkish lumps on her abdomen. "What the hell is that?"

_Hm._ Sherlock sleepily stirred to life in her head, and Molly swore she felt an involuntary jerk of her body as she continued looking at the odd growths. _Molly, I would expect a pathologist to know exactly what those are._

"But that can' t – I mean they're just – sitting there. Sort of – " Molly got to her feet, startling Toby into dashing across the room. She padded into her bedroom and opened her wardrobe to look into the mirror inside the door. Every bit of her looked intact, in fact she could say that she had never looked quite so healthy, no dark circles under her eyes, skin like cream and hair that glowed. Except for one detail, a place on her abdomen where the skin was puckered, rounded outward and flush.

"Sherlock," Molly said as calmly as possible, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe those are testicles. Yours, in fact."

There was a brief pause before he answered, perhaps considering whether or not she was going to finally snap. _Yes. That appears to be the case._

"Right." Molly shut the door. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I think I have to go to work. Just – to get out of here."

_Work would be interesting indeed_ , Sherlock replied, and Molly cringed at the realization that he would be coming with her, and would be doing so for the foreseeable future.

_Quite surprising really_ , Sherlock said, as Molly pulled on underwear, quickly realizing that she was going to have to figure out which pairs accommodated the unwelcome guests.

"What? That this completely fucked up mess still has unplumbed depths of awfulness?" Molly muttered, wincing as she bumped into the edge of her drawer and realized that the new appendages were quite sensitive.

_No. That you actually own a full-length mirror._

Molly's furious response nearly peeled the paint off the walls and sent Toby hiding under the sofa for the next hour.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly settled into a new routine, one where Sherlock periodically interjected himself into her day at awkward moments, said dreadful things to her, and made odd demands regarding the use of her person. In short, it wasn't terribly different from her previous relationship with Sherlock, except that now he was constantly there. He tried to train her in his style of eating and sleeping, but Molly wasn't having it. She liked food, liked her coffee with cream and one sugar, and needed a solid 7-8 hours of sleep per night to be at her best. 

_Complete waste of time_ , Sherlock complained, although Molly pointed out that he was free to stay awake as long as he liked so long as he didn't wake her up. She later had to amend this to include making her sleepwalk or any other activity with "sleep" as a prefix.

Three days after Molly returned to work, she came home to find something nearly as disturbing as the initial incident: Mycroft Holmes seated on her sofa, awaiting her return with an expression of utter distaste on his face.

_Oh, honestly. He cannot let anything alone._

"There's a point this time, isn't there?" Molly said, and noticing confusion flit across Mycroft's face, realized that she had said it out loud. "Mr. Holmes – is there something I can do for you?"

"Don't waste my time, Miss Hooper. Where is my brother?"

"I don't know. Haven't seen him for days." Well, that was true enough.

Mycroft glared and rose to his feet. "There is no point in lying by omission, Miss Hooper. Your flat was the last place Sherlock was picked up by surveillance. If he isn't concealing himself somewhere like a child –" the volume of Mycroft's voice increased sharply at that – "Then he has somehow evaded our view, as unlikely as that is when we had all entrances of this building monitored. And you were absent from the hospital for several days due to 'illness' yet you appear to be the picture of perfect health. Miss Hooper, where is Sherlock?"

With each phrase Mycroft had stepped closer until he loomed over her, sheer annoyance seeming to emanate from every cell of his being. Sherlock irritably muttered that he was being a bully and nosy, but Molly also had a thought – which was that Mycroft was possibly the only person who could help them at all.

 _He won't help_ , Sherlock said quickly, and the unexpected edge of anxiety in his voice made Molly's stomach drop. _He won't keep you safe._

"Nothing will keep us safe," Molly said, causing Mycroft to look up with some concern.

"What is happening, Miss Hooper?"

"It's Molly, please. And you wouldn't believe me if I told you," Molly said with a sigh.

"Do try."

_Molly._

"He'll figure it out eventually anyway," Molly said softly, "And there are worse ways for that to happen." Sherlock seemed to settle at that, apparently not trusting his brother to treat her any more gently in the future.

She took a breath and looked up at Mycroft. "You should probably sit down. I find people don't stand up very well when they encounter odd things. Here you are, right here will do." Molly patted the sofa and seated herself at the other end. Mycroft, to her surprise, chose to listen and settled stiffly into place, apparently wary of letting his suit pick up cat hair.

 _That is my spot_ , Sherlock complained, and Molly rolled her eyes slightly.

"Sherlock was here," she began, "But of course you know that. He escorted me from Bart's – he had wanted to see a body, it had this strange wound. He told me the man was connected to one of Moriarty's, someone who'd worked at – Dartmoor, was it? They were experimenting with pheromones."

"That research was discontinued," Mycroft interrupted, then looked up. "It was disastrous. In every possible way."

"Yes, that – that makes sense," Molly replied. She clasped her hands together, wondering how she could even begin to describe the past few days.  
"I believe I was – infected with something when I was conducting the autopsy. Sherlock came to me for information and I suppose he needed a place to stay anyway, so we came back to mine." Molly paused, uncertain of exactly how much she wanted to communicate. "And something went horribly wrong, so, so wrong." An edge of hysteria crept into Molly's voice as she tried to swallow down the horror of what had happened.

_Just get on with it, Molly._

"Sherlock, he – I don't know what happened. He stopped breathing. I tried but I couldn't – I couldn't do anything." Molly bit her lip and looked up at Mycroft. For all that Mycroft Holmes was the coldest man she'd ever met, the information she had just presented to him had clearly stirred some form of emotion.

"Sherlock is dead?" He said, not quite to Molly, more to the pile of magazines on her coffee table.

"Not in a manner of speaking, but corporeally – yes, I would say so." Molly felt tears pricking at her eyes as she said it, and heard Sherlock sigh in response.

"Corporeally," Mycroft replied, and abruptly looked up, pure horror on his face. "Miss Hooper, what on earth does that mean?"

"I think the – experimental substance I was exposed to had some unexpected effects. And I thought those effects extended only to what occurred...earlier that evening." Molly blushed despite herself, as a series of memories highly inappropriate to the current situation flickered through her mind.

"Prior to – Ah. Pheromones," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow briefly, and then possibly shuddering a bit. He apparently understood her meaning. "But the effects were more – persistent?"

"Some part of Sherlock's – spirit, I suppose, seems to have remained here."

"Sherlock's spirit?" Mycroft was now looking at her as if she was completely mad, which Molly had to admit was a perfectly reasonable conclusion.

"Yes, it's – well, it's very odd, like I can hear him in my head, really hear him, not like a memory. He's always around, talks constantly."

_It's really quite remarkable how you can make this situation sound even more ridiculous than it actually is, Molly._

Mycroft's hand was perched on his pocket, his mobile just a flick of his wrist away, and suddenly a creeping sensation along the back of her neck reminded Molly that Mycroft was dangerous indeed. "And where, may I ask, is Sherlock's body, Miss Hooper?"

Molly took a breath, not quite certain of what to say next. "There – there isn't one. There was, but it was – one of these effects. Sherlock was dead and I sort of...I don't have a word for it, really, but he was essentially absorbed by my body. I don't really understand why it happened, but –"

Looking up, Molly realized that Mycroft was stunned into absolute horror. "Miss Hooper, I fear my brother has placed you under far too much stress during the past few months."

"No. No, I am telling you the truth, Mr. Holmes. Maybe – maybe I should have called you but he was dead and there was nothing I could do..." Molly's eyes widened. "I could show you!"

_Molly. Molly, think very carefully about this._

"If I don't show him, he'll just throw me in a hospital anyway," Molly said, and leapt to her feet as she started to unbutton her trousers.

Mycroft stood and took a step towards her, moving to stop her. "Miss Hooper, that really isn't –"

"No, it is, look!" Molly tugged her trousers and pants out of the way to show Mycroft...oh. Yes, perhaps that was Sherlock's point. She was attempting to show Mycroft where his brother's testicles were currently lodged in her abdomen. She adjusted her clothes and tried to suppress the blush spreading across her face and throat. Molly thought she must have taken up all the color in the room, since Mycroft was looking alarmingly pale. He collapsed back into the sofa, suddenly breathing hard.

"I believe – you may need medical attention, Miss Hooper." Mycroft loosened his tie as he pulled out his phone, and that, Molly thought, was surely a sign that the entire situation was about to descend even further into hell.

Sherlock seemed to agree. _He doesn't believe you_ , Sherlock said urgently. _I believe he thinks you're a murderer, Molly. Which is ridiculous, because first of all – you're you. And second of all, if you had actually slaughtered me and for some inexplicable reason attached my testicles to your person, there would be obvious sutures and surgical drains involved, at the least –_

"What can I tell you?" Molly blurted. "What would only Sherlock know the answer to?"

Mycroft glared, and Molly felt her stomach drop at the revealed ferocity. "Don't bother, Miss Hooper. I will have all the information about what happened here, regardless of whether you intend to give it to me." 

"I'm not lying to you! I know it sounds ridiculous – but you knew about the research, you knew it was a disaster. It could still be going on somewhere. I didn't – I didn't do anything wrong!"

_Tell him that Heinrich the bear is still in the chest at the foot of his bed. Next to the embroidered duvet and Father's cashmere cardigan that even Mummy doesn't know he has._

"Heinrich the bear!" Molly shouted to Mycroft. He froze, his mouth falling open slightly. Molly swallowed and clenched the edge of her blouse in her fist, sensing how very, very important getting this completely right was.

"Heinrich the bear is in the chest at the foot of your bed. Next to a duvet and your dad's jumper." Sherlock sighed at her simplification of the vocabulary, but Mycroft clapped a hand over his mouth before taking a shaky breath.

Leaning forward and peering up at Molly, he replied, "The name of our fourth nanny, when Sherlock was 8 years old."

"Magali. She was from Brittany," Molly said, her lips pursing into a slight smile as Sherlock conjured up the image of a pretty young woman with short dark hair and slouchy leather boots.

"The combination to the safe at our family's estate."

"17-8-26-43," Molly answered, echoing Sherlock's inner murmuring.

"My god...my god." Mycroft sank back into the sofa, covering his hands with his eyes. "This can't – this can't be happening."

"I know the feeling," Molly said softly, hugging her arms to her body. She crept to the sofa, settling on the opposite end. "I – I thought I was dreaming. Then I thought I was hallucinating. And when it didn’t end I just – tried to handle it, I guess."

Mycroft looked rather ill. "Regardless, Miss Hooper, I believe – you will need to see a doctor. There is no way of knowing what effects this process has had." His gaze fell over her, assessing every inch of her appearance.

"But – how can I? I can't just waltz into a surgery and mention 'oh, by the way, woke up with these things and a man shouting in my head all day." Molly's heart started beating faster as a sweat broke out across her forehead. "What if anyone found out? What would happen – what if they found out it was Sherlock?"

_Molly, stop being hysterical and ask him about the researcher from Dartmoor. Mycroft can find him and he can answer a few questions._

"Yes," Molly said, closing her eyes and willing herself to stay calm. "The researcher from Dartmoor. Would they know what is happening?"

Mycroft, having apparently concluded his scan of her, stared blankly at the pattern in her carpet. "The pheromone research – none of it was successful, at least on the record. I believe you are the first survivor."

Molly's heart sank. "I had hoped someone would have some answers."

"They well might, Miss Hooper." Something seemed to dawn on Mycroft. "You were drawn to my brother, well before this event. You were susceptible to him. That was never the case in the studies; all the subjects were randomly assigned. Perhaps that was important, in some respect."

_I believe my brother is attempting to tell us that love has kept us together. The only possible conclusion is that you have actually caused him to have an aneurysm, Molly._

Mycroft tapped out something on his phone. "You may wish to feed your cat. Seeking appropriate consultation can be time-consuming. We will also need to claim the John Doe from the morgue."

Molly followed Mycroft's directions, ignoring Sherlock's complaints that she was obviously in excellent health and this was a complete waste of time. Mycroft transported her to a facility somewhere outside London, staffed by remarkably nonplussed medical personnel. They tested her blood, saliva, and urine, conducted full body CT scans as well as an MRI. There was one awkward turn-your-head-and-cough joke from one doctor, and Molly responded with a glare so furious that even Sherlock suggested she try to relax. Now she sat, several hours later, exhausted and cold on an examination table, vaguely aware of an armed guard outside the door.

"You'd think with all the money someone poured into this place they could have supplied a better gown," Molly complained, and tried to figure out how to make it cover more of her person. 

_You would think with Bart's being a hospital of relatively good reputation that they would have another decent pathologist. Possible infected animal bite? Really? London could be crawling with serial killers and superviruses and your colleagues would never notice, Molly._

"Well, sorry. I was too busy being horrified by your decaying corpse to finish the autopsy," Molly snapped at Sherlock, biting her lip as the door to the exam room opened again. The bland-looking doctor who had appeared to be in charge of her examination returned, accompanied by a equally bland-looking female junior colleague as well as Mycroft. The young woman smiled reassuringly at Molly, which she appreciated despite suspecting it was somewhat for naught.

"I'm afraid we don't have much useful information for you, Miss Hooper," He explained calmly. "What we can tell you is that the, er, gonads are indeed connected to your vascular system. I'm sure you noticed when we took the skin sample if not considerably earlier that you are sensitized to contact, suggesting connections with your nervous system as well. There is an unusual level of activity in your frontal lobe, but no lesions or changes in structure. In fact you appear to be in remarkably good health otherwise."

"What about the researcher?"

Mycroft sighed. "We suspect he is working with Moriarty's network – fewer ethical constraints to deal with in that milieu. Of greater concern is that we were able to locate some information Sherlock was working from, but the trail seems to have gone cold. Rest assured we will continue to pursue the perpetrator."

"Also, Miss Hooper, you mentioned taking an oral contraceptive. Are you adherent to the schedule? Any interruptions with all the - stress?" the doctor asked curiously.

Molly shook her head. "It was on the placebo anyway. I started up with the new pack several days later."

"That is rather remarkable. You see, your hormones are perfectly balanced. Completely ideal levels of estrogen, FSH, luteinizing hormone and progesterone."

"That's – nice, I suppose," Molly replied. Nice, but not particularly helpful in the category of getting this fixed.

_Oh, Sherlock said abruptly. _I hadn't considered – oh, stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._ _

"What?" Molly hissed, blushing when she realized she had forgotten the three people standing in front of her. 

_Nothing. Pretend you have no concerns beyond what is completely normal here. Ugh, this was so obvious, I don't know how I didn't realize –_

"May I go home now? I just want to go home," Molly said softly. 

"You don't appear to be in imminent danger medically," Dr. Clark replied. "But I would like to have Miss Chebel check in on her in the next week, just to make sure nothing has changed. There's no need to return to the facility unless something more urgent occurs." 

With that, Molly's clothes were returned to her, and Mycroft returned her to her flat. 

"Do contact me if there are any changes, Miss Hooper," he requested stiffly. 

"I will, of course, and Mr. Holmes? I - I am sorry. I know - I know he meant the world to you," Molly said softly, and inwardly kicked Sherlock for his disgusted sniff. Mycroft barely acknowledged her words with a nod, before disappearing back into his sleek, black car. Molly staggered up the stairs to her flat and collapsed onto the sofa, lazily stroking Toby's ears when he approached her. 

_I sincerely hope Mycroft will find a more pleasant facility when you have to give birth, Molly._

"What?" Molly sat up so quickly that her head swam and she nearly landed on the floor. "You - you heard them. My hormones are balanced. Perfectly. I'm not pregnant." 

_You are not. But you will be, eventually. I suspect your birth control is interfering with the process. Quite convenient, actually, since you can select the ideal time for conception –_

"Yes, Sherlock, that is the idea behind birth control – what the hell do you mean, when I have to give birth?" 

_The genetic modification, Molly – they tried to enhance the properties of pheromones, but they did not properly isolate the genetic code involved. Judging by the joining of our systems, what you so astutely described as absorption, and the remaining components, as well as my own increased concerns regarding your safety, I am forced to conclude that the obvious reasons are related to reproduction._

"Reproduction? This isn't how people reproduce!" 

_This isn't how humans reproduce. Although if you will recall, we did engage in that process as well._ Indeed, Molly felt a flush crawl over her skin at the memory of it. 

"Why didn't you say anything while we were with the doctor?" 

_He's an idiot if he couldn't figure it out, Molly. Think about it. Perfectly balanced hormones, despite the contraceptive in your system. You have been practically glowing despite a series of events that would cause profound distress in the most unflappable person. You are ripening, Molly Hooper. Your body is preparing for the next phase of the process._

Molly was silent, trying to take in Sherlock's words, the way he seemed to casually accept what would happen. Pregant. Give birth. To a child that was half-Sherlock. With his sharp mind and lovely curls and gorgeous eyes, all of which were in his utterly enormous head. There was only one thing she could think of to do. 

"I need a drink. A very, very strong drink," Molly said aloud, and headed straight to the bottle of vodka stashed in her freezer. 


	6. Chapter 6

Molly did not take kindly to the news that she was potentially about to explode with an actual spawn. She had more than one slug from her vodka bottle the night Sherlock broke the news to her, and followed this up with drinks with her friends from work two nights later. After taking twenty-four hours to recover, Molly came home from work and opened up a bottle of wine. She had not thought it possible, but she was tired of hearing Sherlock speak, which was unfortunate because Sherlock loved few things more than the sound of his own voice. Molly turned up the volume on _MasterChef_ , hoping to drown him out.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was offering what he no doubt considered wise advice to her.

_Mycroft can help you put the child in an excellent school._

_Perhaps it would be wise to restart your yoga practice._

_Alcohol will not be helpful in conception, Molly. Although I will note that contrary to current medical advice Mummy reported periodically drinking red wine during her pregnancies with no ill effect._

"You sure about that?" Molly asked, staring into her second glass of pinot noir. She could feel Sherlock attempting to deduce what was happening. He didn't seem to be able to observe her thoughts quite as easily when she was drinking, and Molly had to admit that played a small role in her new fondness for adult beverages.

_I take it you are not interested in discussing your impending motherhood at this time._ Molly wasn't sure if she was imagining that he sounded just the slightest bit hurt. 

"No. No I am not," Molly answered, taking a sip of her wine. "I'm still getting used to all of this, Sherlock. And you have been very – unhelpful since I found out about this."

_I have tried to provide useful information._

"I was trying to listen to Nicola talk about her trip to Italy at the time!"

_Please. As if there's anything interesting about a coach tour._

"She is my friend, Sherlock! It's interesting because she's the one telling the story!" Molly shook her head. "I don't know why I keep acting like you would understand this sort of thing. You've only ever had one friend and you just told him to shut up if you wanted to think."

Sherlock was silent at that, and it occurred to Molly that she may have gone a little too far by bringing up John. She sighed, sitting with her head in her hands. Sherlock couldn't be any happier occupying her mind than she was to have him stuck in there.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know you're trying to help, but – I just haven't adjusted to this yet. I don't know if I can adjust to this." She switched off the television and went to get ready for bed, trying not to notice how Sherlock's shift into silence seemed to take up even more space than his voice.

Hours later, Molly realized she was dreaming when she felt the sunshine on her skin, while the darkness of her bedroom had been transformed to a view from the large, sculpted windows onto a serene island in a crystal blue lake.

_Yes, this is a dream. And an experiment. I am interested in establishing whether or not I am able to interact with your unconscious mind in this manner._

"Where am I?" Molly asked, and she was surprised to find Sherlock beside her, standing just a bit too close, his height looming over her and his hand warm at the small of her back. Other sensations arose, smooth silk floating over her skin, the weight of a gold necklace heavy with stones against her breastbone, and a pile of bracelets on each slender wrist. A soft clink as she turned to look at Sherlock suggested earrings as well.

"In your decidedly more mundane version of this fantasy we were in Venice, I think. I decided to provide a more intriguing setting. This is Udaipur, in Rajasthan," Sherlock answered. "A rather exceptional hotel, built on its own island in the middle of a lake. I solved a case for them once. Exquisite, isn't it?" 

"It's gorgeous. And why are we here?" Molly asked curiously.

Sherlock looked out over the water rather than at her, but he replied, "I looked in your bag for a pen one day, and I noticed that you had a travel magazine. I thought it was strange, you've never mentioned going farther afield than Scotland. I suppose I didn't delete it, because while I was here I had the fleeting thought that you would enjoy it." He peered down at her again. "And this region has tigers. You have always liked cats."

"But that's enough explanation. I would have thought you would be one for romance, Molly," Sherlock traced his thumb along the side of her throat. "Although the glimpses of your fantasies I've had hardly bespeak that, do they? We could be in the lab instead..."

"No, this is fine – it's lovely," Molly interrupted. She licked her lips and watched the edges of Sherlock's eyes crinkle up with a slight smile. "Did you – did you bring me here on a case?"

"Did I? Hmmm. Yes, I believe I did. Couldn't possibly trust the local coroner, although I may have exaggerated his incompetence just a tad to get you to agree to join me. No doubt you noticed when you met the man, which would make you a bit curious about my motives. Perhaps I also told them you were my wife, just to smooth our arrangements a bit." Sherlock leaned down to whisper in her ear, "That would make you blush, of course, although I obviously had no intention of using that bed."

And a fine bed it was, Molly noticed as she glanced into the room, a four poster covered in rich fabrics and a plethora of pillows. She had the distinct feeling Sherlock wasn't interested in sleeping just yet.

"And the case is solved now?" Molly peered up at him through her lashes. She almost couldn't bear to look at him – it was worse than usual, really. Perhaps because Sherlock rarely looked so undone and relaxed as he did at the moment, his feet bare and his white linen shirt hanging loosely on his shoulders, skin just slightly tanned.

"Mmmm. Quite finished, yes. And you know how I can get. All those neglected appetites catching up with me." He spun her away from the sun-dappled lake towards the inviting room. She felt his lips against the shell of her ear as his hand splayed across her stomach.

"Will that be enough patter to keep you from feeling guilty about engaging in sex?" Before she could answer Molly found her words cut off by Sherlock's lips covering hers. He tasted her mouth thoroughly, until Molly nearly had to push him away to catch her breath. She made their next kisses briefer and softer, her fingers toying in his hair until he made a frustrated noise and clasped her hips against his. 

"We aren't here to snog, Molly," he complained, then scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder. Molly shrieked in confounded fear and delight as he carried her to the bed, laying her down across the duvet. "Get undressed. Don’t remove that jewelry, I worked very hard to recover it."

"A bit eager, aren't you? Do you have an experiment in mind where we try out all positions in the Kama Sutra?" Molly joked as she untied the halter of her dress. Not that she minded, exactly, desire had been twisting in her belly from the instant she noticed the heat of his hand through her silk dress. She also noticed that Sherlock's editing apparently made underthings superfluous.

"That would be ridiculous, Molly. You lack the athleticism and the difference in our heights would make some of those positions impossible." With the slightest curve of a smile, Sherlock's expression shifted from disdain to what Molly could only describe as a leer. "But I'm sure there are pages where it would be worth applying our efforts."

"Oh?" Molly said, craning her body towards Sherlock's as he joined her on the bed. "You've read the Kama Sutra? Hardly seems like something that would interest you."

"Research," Sherlock murmured against her skin. "For example, Chapter three. The following are the places for kissing: the forehead, the eyes, the cheeks, the throat, the bosom, the breasts, the lips, and the interior of the mouth." Sherlock punctuated his list with actions, from just barely brushing her eyelids with his lips to bruising kisses to the sides of her breasts. Her back arched towards him, as she wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to draw him closer. He ground his hips against her, letting her feel how quickly he'd grown hard and hot for her before he swallowed her nipple into his mouth. Molly tangled her hand into his hair – God, had it really been that silky? She lifted his arm and kissed the inside of his wrist, just to taste his skin again, and sucked two of his fingers into her mouth, teasing the pads with her tongue. Sherlock looked up, briefly fascinated, then pulled his fingers away to slip them over her vulva, already hot and slick. 

"Now, then. What page shall we try first, Molly?" He asked, his voice a warm rumble in his chest. Molly groaned and writhed, trying to get his fingers where she wanted them, but Sherlock only gave her a sinful smile and held his fingers still over her clit, not quite applying enough pressure to relieve any of the ache between her thighs.

"I don't care, Sherlock, just – just fuck me already." Well. She'd only waited approximately four years to tell him that. Sherlock raised his eyebrows (whether at her words or the thought that followed, she wasn't sure) and abruptly pulled away, kneeling before her on the bed. He beckoned for her to join him, and as Molly knelt in front of him, he arranged her to his liking, straddling his thigh. He carefully guided her to sink down onto his cock, and the bangles on her arm clinked as she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep her balance. Sherlock began to thrust gently, the movements slight as he nibbled at her bottom lip in a kiss. Molly was surprised by the closeness, the way Sherlock kept her clasped tightly in his arms. His tongue swept gently past her lips, exploring as if he had never kissed her before – but then, Molly realized, he had only kissed her a few times in their sole encounter. Sherlock tilted his head back and caught his breath, and Molly kissed the spot on his throat where his pulse moved beneath the skin.

"Thought we weren't here to snog," Molly teased, and Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"Indeed," Sherlock said, and eased her onto her back, nestled in a pile of pillows. She let Sherlock arrange her legs, bending them as he leaned over her so that her feet were pressed into his chest. Her bum rested on his thighs as Sherlock entered her again, and he folded his arms on her shins. Molly giggled at Sherlock's choice – he would choose the Rube Goldberg machine of positions - until he began to move his hips again, pressing her knees back as he drove his hips forward, and Molly's eyes widened.

"Oh," Molly breathed, her brain seeming to seize up at the strange mix of pleasure and pressure that was spreading a flush over her body, "Oh – oh, that's – Sherlock –"

"Perfect? Yes. Clearly Vatsyayana figured out that the so-called Grafenburg spot was relevant a few centuries earlier than Europeans." Sherlock sounded arrogant as hell, but Molly noticed the way his eyelids fluttered as her muscles tightened. Molly dug her fingernails into his thighs, the distinct sensation that she couldn’t stop trembling growing more intense. Molly felt dizzy, the build of her climax growing from an itch she couldn't scratch to an aching pressure that seemed to intensify with each second. She strained to move her hips, grunting in frustration at just how much control Sherlock had in this position.

"Look at me, Molly," Sherlock murmured, and she let her gaze rest on him. He looked captivated, Molly realized, watching her slowly become overwhelmed with pleasure. His skin was so warm beneath her fingertips and for just a moment, Molly forgot that it was a dream. She nearly sobbed as she reached her peak, pressing so hard against Sherlock's chest that she thought she could feel his strong heart beat beneath the sole of her foot. Sherlock thrust gently, riding out the quaking of her body until Molly whispered for him to stop, then gently guided her legs down to fall to each side of him. He slipped out of her and Molly smiled, sleepily trailing her fingers down his finely muscled chest.

"Now how shall I take care of you?" Molly asked playfully, shifting her hips so that Sherlock's cock slid through her wetness. He shuddered and Molly smiled, nudging him back against the pillows. She pressed a row of kisses across his clavicle and flicked a fingernail over his nipple, rubbing with her thumb when he jerked slightly in response. Remembering his earlier attentions to her, Molly explored the taut skin of his chest and abdomen with feather-light kisses and gentle nips of her teeth, occasionally reaching down to give Sherlock's cock a stroke or two. Finally, she followed the path of her hand and bent to take his penis into her mouth, sucking and teasing the head, letting the heavy collar of stones at her neck drag across his thighs.

"Molly," he groaned, and actually tugged at her ponytail to get her attention. She looked at him, flushed and breathing hard, and felt a new rush of desire that made her change her plans. Shifting to straddle him, she grasped his stiff cock in her hand and guided him inside her again, then grinned as she leaned back on her arms and began to drive her hips up and down, pausing now and then to grind her clit against him. Her earrings jangled rhythmically, and she could feel a trickle of sweat beneath the weighted collar. She pulled herself forward and held onto Sherlock's shoulder with one hand as she rubbed her fingers furiously over her clit, crying out softly with each stroke. Sherlock clutched at her hips, his eyes darting everywhere as he took her in, then finally tipped his head back and moaned hoarsely. He trembled beneath her, hips snapping as he came. Molly clenched her eyes shut as her own orgasm pulsed through her, wanting to focus on the dizzying pleasure. 

When she opened her eyes again, she saw only her plain, white ceiling. Her camisole clung to her sweaty skin, and she was definitely going to need to change these sheets. Slowly it dawned on her that despite the intensity of the experience, she hadn't touched herself once. A radio announcer's voice droned in the background, informing her that it was 7:15, and she was therefore 45 minutes late getting out of bed.

Molly flew into the bathroom, trying to get her sex-addled brain to compute how she could possibly get in a shower and still get to Bart's on time.

Don't wash your hair. You always wear it up anyway, so no one will notice. Get breakfast in the cafeteria. Feed the cat. And get dressed, of course. Simple enough, Molly.

"Yes, I suppose," Molly said, trying to brush her teeth while still frazzled by her lateness. "I think I'm forgetting something, though."

_I'm certain that you are not. But you really should hurry._

Molly thought Sherlock's plan was as good as any, and she followed it to the letter until she rushed back into the bathroom to apply some mascara and realized that she had forgotten to take her birth control pill. While she might normally figure it could wait for the end of the day, under the current circumstances she didn't dare to risk missing a dose.

And then she heard it. A very soft, very low sigh somewhere in the back of her mind. Molly knew she should have suspected something was going on when Sherlock had developed a sudden interest in sex in highly romantic settings with Mills & Boon-worthy setups.

"You – you tried to make me sleep through my alarm! So I wouldn't take my pill! Sherlock!" Molly had an overwhelming urge to smack something, and the bathroom counter was going to have to do. "Dammit! Why would you do that, Sherlock? You don't even like children!" She paused, a question suddenly dawning on her that she had never imagined asking. "Wait. Do you like children?"

_I can tolerate them. Some of them. When they are interesting._

"You realize they aren't actually interesting most of the time." Molly sighed. "We are going to have a talk about this, Sherlock. Later. When I get back from Bart's." She stared up at her ceiling, realizing that she needed to append her existing social contract with Sherlock.

"Incidentally, you are absolutely forbidden to attempt what we just did without asking first."

_Why? You clearly found it highly enjoyable. And it hardly carries the risk of more ambulatory behaviors._

"Because sometimes I fall asleep in staff meetings and you don’t always pay attention to where I am."

_Oh._ Sherlock paused. _Yes, that would be rather inappropriate._

"Quite," Molly said, and slammed a drawer shut, both annoyed with Sherlock, and frustrated that the connection she'd felt with him last night wasn't nearly as authentic as she'd hoped.


	7. Chapter 7

After Sherlock's attempt at manipulating her, Molly concluded that she'd had enough of not knowing what exactly was going on with her body, Sherlock's testicles, and what he had informed her was impending motherhood. She sent Mycroft a text at Sherlock's suggestion, asking if he could give her any information on her condition. Mycroft didn't return her text, but the following day a blank-faced man in a suit brought a tiny flash drive to her in the laboratory.

"Well that's – something, I hope," Molly murmured as she slipped the drive into her bag.

_Indeed. If we're lucky he hasn't redacted everything in the file._

Sherlock was initially delighted that they were going to have to hack the password but Molly pointed out that the drive was thumbprint activated, and she did not want to know when Mycroft had acquired her thumbprint. The first folder contained documents with large sequences of genetic code, test results without a key for what the numbers represented, and a list of subject numbers marked deceased. Molly's hopes brightened slightly when they opened a document describing the pheromone deriving procedure in some detail, but there was no explanation of where the DNA emerged from or how the experiment concluded with its human subjects.

_They're certainly not going to be published in BMJ anytime soon, are they?_ Sherlock asked with a sigh.

"Wait," Molly said, as she noticed something in the corner. Not a full document, she realized, but a scrap, a corrupted file that still contained some information that could be read. Molly opened the file in notepad, and found largely a useless bunch of symbols. One word, however, stuck out to her.

Anglerfish.

Molly opened her search engine before Sherlock could even order her to do so. What she found was unpleasant to say the least.

"Oh, dear god," Molly squeaked, as she read about weak and helpless male fish being absorbed by monstrous females, about how they were drawn in by delicious pheromone scents, growing physically attached only to have their bodies dissolve into their larger mate. She shuddered as she remembered Sherlock's voice thrumming over her skin, telling her how wonderful she tasted.

The only detail out of place seemed to be that anglerfish had a phosphorescent appendage over their heads that attracted their prey as well as their male suitors. Molly thought she could safely say she did not have a light growing out of her head.

_However, Molly, I did think your skin had a certain...luminosity that evening. I assumed someone had improved the lighting._

"No," Molly said with a sigh, "No one is ever going to improve the mortuary lighting." She sighed and looked blearily at the rest of the encyclopedia page on anglerfish. Not one thing she had read suggested an answer to their predicament.

_And the other folder, Molly?_

"The other folder?" Molly clicked back until she saw it, a folder labeled simply "Recipes" in the top directory. Molly opened it and found additional documents, as well as a series of photographs. 

_Mycroft has sent us some bread crumbs, it seems._

Molly flicked through the pictures for Sherlock's benefit, although the subjects were mysterious to her. The photos documented two men and one woman, who looked innocuous to Molly's eyes as they were shown going about their daily activities.

_That one was planted in the Met. His assignment was to shoot DI Lestrade if I failed to jump._

"Oh," Molly whispered, a pang of fear jolting her heart. She gasped as the next picture came into view, for the unnamed man's body lay crumpled at the bottom of a steep outdoor stairwell, his neck resting at a strange angle like a snapped twig. She squinted at the picture, uncertain about why she recognized the setting.

_Wapping Old Stairs, in Ramsgate. Not terribly steep but perhaps he had a few drinks at one of the pubs, failed to stop himself when he fell._

Molly shuddered, her reaction towards both Sherlock's casual dismissal of the stranger's death, and the terrifying reality of what could have happened if the man wasn't in a heap on the pavement. 

_Judging by the man's coat, these photos are quite recent. I suspect you are going to receive a call into work, Molly._

Two hours later, Sherlock was proved correct, and Molly groggily made her way to Bart's, taking a cab at Sherlock's insistence. When she entered the mortuary, she found Mycroft Holmes waiting for her and looking distastefully at the stainless steel environs.

"Miss Hooper, if you would. A reasonable explanation is needed for this man's demise, one that can be provided to the Met to prevent any further interest. I thought this might be the most expedient way to handle it." Mycroft gave her an oily smile. "After all, you have already been so helpful."

Molly found herself bristling slightly, although there was nothing particularly untrue in what Mycroft said. It simply irritated her on a basic level that she couldn't identify. She paused, suddenly realizing the truth of it – Sherlock's attitude towards his brother was subtly colouring her own. She decided to quickly look over the body before beginning to record her findings.

"I take it no one should know about this puncture wound behind his ear," Molly said, eyebrows raised, and she thought Sherlock might have sighed blissfully.

"Indeed. If my brother is not – aware – do let him know that this was handled."

_If I am – of all the cheek –_

"He knows. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. This process can be quite unpleasant and I am given to understand you don't enjoy leg work, so perhaps you could allow me to do my job?" Mycroft nodded in reply and stepped into the corridor, still eyeing her with an air of suspicion. Molly got to work, documenting the various injuries sustained in the man's fall, and the toxicology tests she planned for the samples she gathered. She thought she built a rather good case for an accidental fall following a night of heavy drinking, and noted to Sherlock that even if Mycroft's people hadn't engineered a little something extra, the fall might well have killed the man regardless. As she turned off the recorder Sherlock extemporized on the exact location of the man's last meal, which (if you were Sherlock) was easily determined by his stomach contents bearing the hallmark of a certain pub's rather unique meat pie recipe.

"As long as it wasn't one of Mrs. Lovett's meat pies."

_What?_

"Never mind," Molly said with a sigh, and stared down at the corpse on her table, a terrible man's body unfurled and on display for her eyes, and now Sherlock's.

"He would have killed Greg," Molly said softly to herself, "He would have. Still might have, if they found out about you."

_Without a second thought_ , Sherlock reminded her. _I am impressed that you noted the actual cause of death before Mycroft said a word, however._

"Not that remarkable, Sherlock. I was primed to look for some other reason for the man's death. I don't even know if I would have caught all the details without you whispering in my ear."

_I imagine you would have, Molly. Your skills were evident to me from the start._

Molly blushed a bit at that, and then purposefully showed Sherlock a bit more of a colon ravaged by diverticulitis than either of them really needed to see. By the time she had completed the autopsy and written up a draft of her report to be finalized later, the sun had risen and London was starting to buzz with weekday activity. Molly stepped bleary-eyed into the street, debating whether she would stay awake on the bus long enough to get home.

_Don't take the bus. Go to the tube station. We're running an errand._

"What kind of errand?" Molly muttered, hoping she didn't look mental to everyone around her.

_The kind it's best you don't know that much about in advance_ , Sherlock said solemnly, and Molly sighed. Surely it wouldn't take that long, he probably just wanted something for an experiment.

Molly descended into the tube station and waited on the platform. Naturally, she had just missed a train and the next one would be several minutes.

_Don't remain still, Molly. You need to stay awake. Walk up and down the platform._

With a slight huff because really, she wasn't that tired, Molly began to stroll. As she waited, other commuters appeared, giving Sherlock a new way to amuse himself.

_That one in the trainers has a test today. Had eggs and soldiers for breakfast but couldn't finish it because he's so nervous. The woman in striped trousers was wearing them yesterday – she's trying to pass off that shirt as her own but it's clearly her boyfriend's. Maybe not her boyfriend but if she's willing to steal his shirt she wouldn't mind seeing him again._

Molly listened as Sherlock rambled – this was better than her IPod any day. Perhaps this is what dating him would have been like, listening to him deduce the secrets of strangers, the words whispered warmly into her ear (also the sleep deprivation and constant need for coffee, because despite what her friends may have claimed his cheekbones never rendered her blind to all his eccentricities). Despite the odd circumstances it seemed almost normal and typical, and so Molly should have realized that it wasn't going to last very long. A small flash of movement out of the corner of her eye was the first indication that something was not quite right in this situation, and just as she turned, a much larger body slammed brutally into hers, knocking her off her feet. With a terrified scream, Molly tumbled over the edge of the platform onto the tracks below.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, some gratuitous femslash. Although I guess it's all been pretty gratuitous.

Molly briefly had high hopes of what a safer location might involve, such as room service, feather pillows, and large bathtubs. None of those were present in the stark government building where Mycroft planted her. She may as well have had a cell, for all the comforts offered by the room's lack of windows and terrible fluorescent lighting.

It is a holding cell. I sincerely hope he doesn't think this is going to be tolerable for any extended period of time.

"No kidding," Molly breathed. Her eyes slid to the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. "Is he watching us?"

_No doubt. Although I believe it is solely for your safety._ Sherlock paused. _Are you all right, Molly?_

"I'm – a bit shaken up. But yes, I think I'll be all right." Molly froze as she heard the lock on the door clack and it slid open with a whoosh. A pretty, dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway, carrying what looked like a rather old-fashioned medical bag.

"Miss Hooper! My name is Anna Lobo, one of Dr. Clark's assistants. They've sent me to check on you." She smiled warmly as she strode into the room. "I know you saw Miss Chebel earlier but no one seems to be able to find her. I understand you've had an awful scare, we just want to make sure you're not hurt."

Molly smiled faintly as the young woman set a black bag on the table beside her. Sherlock sighed. 

_Medical evaluation. Dull. You're in excellent health, as they well know._ Molly silently agreed and observed Anna's quick and dexterous movements as she slipped a probe cover onto a thermometer and slipped it beneath Molly's tongue. She cheerfully declared Molly's temperature normal and took her pulse.

"A little fast, but that's hardly surprising after what you went through this morning. Let me just listen to your heart and I can leave you in peace. If you could unbutton your blouse?" She pulled a stethoscope from her bag and warmed the cold disc of metal in her hand, then gently nudged aside the strap of Molly's camisole to press it to Molly's skin.

"Breathe," Anna said softly, and moved the stethoscope to Molly's back. Molly glanced at her, noting that Anna was watching her face so intently that she briefly seemed to forget that she needed to listen to multiple areas of Molly's lungs. There was a brief examination of Molly's shoulder, which had taken the brunt of her landing in the gravel, but Anna said it appeared to be only bruised. Then she requested that Molly hold out her arm for a new blood sample. Sherlock had been quiet after dismissing the doctor as dull, but this seemed to pique his attention.

_Mycroft is overreacting. Tell him he's overreacting. I didn't put you – wouldn't put you in any danger. Also, she's attracted to you. A bit inappropriate on her part, but then I suppose you aren't really her patient._

Molly nearly blurted out that Sherlock must be wrong, but then Anna smiled sweetly as she lowered her eyes and Molly thought, seemed to blush just a bit. Oh. Molly felt an answering flush heat her own cheeks.

_She is quite attractive, Molly. You could do worse._

Molly bit down on the inside of her lip as the needle pinched, wanting nothing more than to tell Sherlock to shut up but painfully aware that she needed to keep quiet. Instead, she silently questioned why Sherlock was worried about the blood test.

_There is no reason to ask for a new blood sample. He must be trying to deduce what we did not reveal to him earlier. The ripening, the preparation we observed._ Sherlock seemed to falter slightly. _I am not certain of what Mycroft will do if he realizes, Molly._

"There," Miss Lobo said, and stuck a plaster over the spot, jolting Molly out of her head and back to reality. "I'll let you know if there have been any changes in your results. You may have to wait a while, though – we weren't expecting you and well, you can imagine how the lab gets."

Molly smiled weakly. "I don't believe Mr. Holmes has any intention of letting me leave any time soon anyway. I may as well wait for an update." Sherlock sighed loudly in the background.

_Ask her about the doctor who saw you before._

"So – Dr. Clark – what do you think of him?" Molly asked, hoping she sounded guileless.

"Oh, he's fine. He's worked for the department for ages, used to be stationed somewhere up north, I think. But he transferred here around three years ago." Anna reached out and squeezed her hand gently. "Don't worry. He really is an expert in all sorts of unusual biological phenomena. I've learned so much working with him." She rose to her feet and tossed her thick black hair over her shoulder.

"I'll get these run, and maybe I could - come back later?"

Molly smiled gratefully. "That would be lovely," she said, "They certainly don't worry about keeping anyone amused around here."

Anna's teeth flashed in a bright smile. "I'm sure we can find something to do this evening. Just us girls," she replied brightly with a wink, and stepped out.

_She's rather blatant with her attentions for someone under constant surveillance._

"I'm sure it's not what you think, Sherlock," Molly said, rolling her eyes, although she thought he might just be correct. And Molly had to admit that she didn't exactly mind.

Anna returned after Molly had been served dinner, and under guard escorted Molly to a more comfortable room. She brought a laptop computer, and pulled up a film on Netflix to watch. They sat side-by-side on a sofa in the little room, with Molly feeling awkwardly aware of Anna's every breath and shifting movement, now that Sherlock had made her notice that she might be interested. She tried to focus on the English subtitles of the French drama. Before even half the film had passed, though, Molly found her gaze drifting to Anna, the thick lashes over her rich brown eyes shining in the flickering light of the computer. Anna noticed, and they were already sitting so close that it seemed like nothing at all for her to lean in to brush her lips against Molly's.

"Is this all right?" Anna whispered, and Molly answered by kissing her again, with considerably less gentleness involved. Molly let herself be pressed back into the cushions, feeling the softness of Anna's lush breasts against her own, a hand stroking lightly along her ribs. Her hips slid rhythmically against Molly's own, as her lips drifted along her jaw and neck. Molly rocked her hips in reply, breathing in the heavy, amber-laden scent of Anna's perfume as her hand slid into her thick dark hair. She tried not to think, not to question if she was really doing this with a woman who was practically a stranger. Anna pulled away, breathing hard, and smiled down at her as she pressed her hand along Molly's neck.

"Your pulse is so fast," she whispered, as a smile crept over her lips. "I think I can make it faster." Molly flushed as Anna pulled her bra strap down her shoulder, feathering tiny kisses over her breast until she began teasing her nipple with her tongue.

Anna's delicate hands unzipped her trousers and Molly suddenly remembered. "Oh. Those – "

"I knew they were there, Molly. And well...I know what they are, I saw the scans, even if Dr. Clark swears that can't be what they are," Anna murmured, "I'm curious. Are they – sensitive?"

"They're...sort of – oh!" Molly gasped as Anna cupped and stroked each reddish growth with gentle hands. She shuddered, stunned because while they had certainly been sensitive to pain and pressure, with the focus switched to pleasure, the sensation was a rush of heat through her body.

"I think that's a yes," Anna said, raising her eyebrows. She unzipped her skirt and writhed out of it with far more grace than Molly could have managed in the same situation, and slid one of her thighs between Molly's, lifting Molly's leg to hook over her hip. Molly grabbed at Anna's blouse, swallowing a moan in a kiss as they ground against each other, working up a messy, frantic rhythm with only a thin layer of material between them. The occasional grope from Anna's hand seemed to intensify the ache in Molly's cunt as she thrust up against Anna's thigh, and mercifully also seemed to short out Sherlock's thought process entirely, because it was the first time in weeks that he'd been quiet for more than five minutes at a time. Molly could feel herself so close but just not quite there, as sweat dampened her back and Anna's kisses grew more desperate. She slipped her hand beneath the wire of Anna's bra, squeezing her nipple between her fingers and trying to get even more friction.

"Oh, fuck –" Anna whispered, her voice broke and her body trembled above Molly, and her dark eyes seemed to be devouring her. She was gorgeous, Molly thought, and somehow it only added to the surreal feeling of the moment. Molly nearly panicked, though, when Anna suddenly pulled away.

"No, I'm so close, what are you – "

"Hush," Anna whispered, putting her finger to her lips. She crawled down Molly's body and shoved Molly's panties aside, sliding two fingers along her clit without hesitation. Then Anna leaned over and sucked each of the testicles into her mouth as she plunged her fingers into Molly's slick cunt, the heel of her palm pressing against her mound. That apparently was the something more Molly had been looking for, and she let out a little whine, trying to grind her hips down to get what she wanted from Anna. She was so, so close - 

"Molly! Molly, you're having a nightmare, wake up!" Molly gasped and sat up, to find Anna leaning over her with her hands on her shoulders. She must have shaken her slightly, Molly realized, confusion making her realize the very sizable gap between Anna in reality, her face full of concern, and the one she'd just been having rabid bunny sex with in her dream.

"Oh. Oh, goodness, I – I didn't mean to fall asleep! You should have woken me...really should have woken me," Molly said, wordlessly having the thought that she was going to kill Sherlock if she could just figure out how.

Anna laughed softly. "Don’t worry about it. You probably needed the rest after today. Are you all right?" 

"Yes – oh yes, I'm fine, I think it's just the stress of the day, you know." Molly shrugged, "It happens, sometimes." Anna smiled and squeezed her hand gently, and Molly felt herself blush just thinking about what she'd imagined her doing with that hand just a minute earlier.

"Look, I've got to go. But there's a guard outside. Tell them if you need anything." She closed the laptop and stood up, wished Molly a good night and walked out.

Molly glared at the empty wall, waiting for Sherlock to appear from wherever he was hiding in her mind. "So did you actually lift that scene out of a porno? Because it was absolutely cheesy, I could practically hear the awful music in the background. Not to mention that she wasn't even slightly fazed that I have testicles where testicles don't bloody belong! And she was completely out of my league and just – pounced on me."

_She was obviously interested in you, Molly, regardless of what you may think of your so-called league. However, she is also married. I saw the rings on a chain around her neck, probably because she frequently has to wear gloves for work._ Sherlock added after a moment, _You seemed...unhappy. I thought it might cheer you up._

"No, Sherlock, it did not cheer me up. I was unhappy because someone tried to kill me and your brother stuck me in a glorified closet full of cameras. Now I also feel silly, and completely embarrassed." Molly sat up abruptly, her posture ramrod straight. "Wait. Her name is Anna Lobo. Lobo means wolf in Spanish. Could she be part of Moriarty's fairy tale thing? The Big Bad Wolf? I mean, she has big eyes, and big teeth! He'd think that was hilarious! Sherlock, she's not – she's not the mole, is she?" Molly asked fretfully.

_All the better to eat you with, my dear? No, I believe it indicates that at least one of her parents has roots in Western India. Didn’t you notice her badge? She started working here months after my so-called death. And she appeared to be entirely honest in her – amiable treatment towards you. At any rate, I foresee a flurry of transfers out of the facility in the near future, so I wouldn't worry about any awkwardness in seeing her again._

"Transfer isn't a euphemism, is it?"

_No._ Molly could hear the eye roll. _That said, my money is on the mysteriously absent Miss Chebel, who you will note would have had access to you in your home in a few days if your attacker had no opportunity. She may have attempted to go to ground when that clumsy assassination attempt failed. That will be dealt with if Mycroft locates her. And yes, dealt with is a euphemism._

"Right," Molly sighed, and sank back into the sofa. "I need a shower. And I want to go home."

_Are you going to finish in the shower?_

"Just because you asked, no," Molly grumbled, and dragged herself off the sofa.

_Fine. And Molly, you might want to stop speaking aloud. The room is almost certainly bugged._

The remainder of the night was uneventful. Which was fortunate for Molly, since Mycroft Holmes came to fetch her home at 6:15 AM, and she had the terrible feeling that he was planning a conversation away from his surveillance equipment.


	9. Chapter 9

The ride to Molly's flat from the facility was tense, although Mycroft did nothing more awkward than suggest that she had suffered from unpleasant nightmares while in the facility, with the slight implication that he knew very well her dreams weren't exactly that. He pulled a sheaf of papers from a portfolio and handed it to Molly.

She looked through the printouts. Her test results, all pointing to her continued excellent health.

"I don't know what you and my brother are playing at," Mycroft said icily. "But you need to put a stop to it."

"We're not playing at anything," Molly replied. "Nothing about this is fun. Nothing about this is a bloody game. I'm terrified. And I don't know how to put a stop to it." She slapped the papers to the seat beside her.

_He knows_. Molly looked up into Mycroft's cold gaze. Assessing, just like Sherlock's, but somehow even worse because she knew he was listing every inadequacy, every reason that Sherlock's prediction was terrible news.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, his eyes going frighteningly blank. "You understand what these results suggest, don't you? And if you don't, I have little doubt that my brother knows quite well."

"And what do you propose I do about it?" Molly snapped, digging her fingernails into the leather seats of the car. "We can't fix it. Your bloody scientists trying to play God caused this entire mess, and they don't have an answer for why I'm even still alive. I don't even know what's going to happen, not really. It could – it could kill me. It killed that man."

Mycroft paused. "Actually, it's highly likely that you are alive because you are not a man."

"What?" Molly wrinkled her nose, her anger stolen out from under her by her confusion. "What does that have to do with it?"

_Oh, what idiots_ , Sherlock groaned inside her head. _They didn't use any female research subjects._

"No female subjects?" Molly repeated. "So we have no idea if this could even – if it would possibly – "

"To be fair, there weren't many subjects at all. The ineffectiveness of the genetic alteration became evident rather quickly." 

"It's more effective than you think," Molly answered, blushing at exactly why she had that impression, and felt Sherlock's internal eye-roll follow. "Not worth the side effects, though." She winced, because indeed, that was the understatement of the year.

"Indeed," Mycroft replied. They stared at each other for a moment, London blurring into view around them through the windows of the car. 

"Is my flat bugged?" Molly asked. "I know you watched the outside at least but the inside. Is it bugged?" When Mycroft shook his head no, Molly took a deep breath. "Then I think you should come inside for a talk."

When they arrived at her flat, they did just that, with Mycroft refusing to sit or to accept Molly's offer of tea. She had the impression that he did not intend to stay long, but she knew there were several points to be made. And somehow, in silence, in calm, Mycroft Holmes was far more terrifying than he might have been in a screaming rage.

Molly settled herself into the sofa, looking at her hands, which trembled lightly with her nerves now. She had literally taken people apart with them, and tried so hard to put others back together. This was just a conversation, an explanation, and Mycroft deserved this in light of what she was about to say.

"Mr. Holmes – this wasn't planned, it was an accident. We knew the chemicals were influencing us but we didn't understand the depths of it. I – I love Sherlock and I would never have done anything to harm him on purpose. I can swear that to you."

Mycroft turned and gazed at her, apparently trying to decide if she was being honest. She thought she detected the slightest hint of pity, no doubt at the mention of her feelings for Sherlock. "You realize then, that a pregnancy will eventually occur, and that there is no guarantee of your safety when it does. Nor of my brother's - " He paused, clearly holding in some unwelcome emotion, as though the possibility had not entirely occurred to him. And in truth, it hadn't entirely occurred to Molly.

"The male of that species does not survive impregnation," Mycroft said quietly, "I suspect the researchers did not improve on that feature, in light of what you have been facing, Miss Hooper." Molly clutched a throw pillow to her chest, not wanting to even have the thought of losing Sherlock again enter her mind.

"And there's – nothing? Nothing you can do?" Molly had hoped Mycroft had secret connections with ideas...but when she tried to imagine what those ideas might be, she had to admit she was at a loss.

"I am afraid that my resources in this area have been exhausted," Mycroft said. "I sincerely hoped you and Sherlock might be able to offer some insight."

He frowned down at her imperiously, "And as you do not have any, Miss Hooper, I'm afraid that this conversation is a waste of time for both of us. I can show myself out." Which he did, with what Molly could only describe as a sniff of disdain. Instinctively, she stuck her tongue out at his retreating form, making Sherlock chuckle.

"So now what?" Molly asked, addressing her question to Sherlock, because she hoped there was some sort of answer.

_Now we wait, Molly. It is our only remaining option._

And so Molly made an effort to return to her relatively normal life. She spent a beautiful autumn focusing on her work, eerily aware that she was uncertain of whether her next autumn would be the same. Autopsies, a bit of lecturing, and finishing an article she had let fall to the side in the midst of crisis took up much of her time – and kept Sherlock amused. Mike Stamford praised her remarkable efficiency.

"Especially in light of the year you've had, Molly," He said warmly, and Molly felt her eyes grow wet as she smiled at him. He didn't know the half of it. Outside of Bart's, she also let herself have dinners out, the occasional pub night, and even a bank holiday weekend trip to the Loire Valley with her friends, but dodged attempts to fix her up with anyone – it was easy enough to point out that these had always ended disastrously anyway.

In a way, though, it was a shame, her enforced chastity wasting her glowing skin, lustrous hair, and slightly more blossomed curves. "I shouldn't even think about it," she said with a sigh, "Not like I'm going to go on the pull with someone else's testicles making a happy home in my abdomen."

Straightening up her posture, she blinked at the luminous Molly in the mirror. "Somewhere, Chomsky just shuddered."

_Who?_

Molly opened her mouth to answer, then narrowed her eyes. "You're taking the piss, aren't you?"

_Possibly._

"Hmph," Molly said decidedly, and chased Toby out of her bed so that she could tuck herself into it. She'd been caught talking "to herself" at work now and then, and she supposed her colleagues thought she was a bit mad. Sometimes she wished she was mad, suffering from some sort of late onset psychosis. In a twisted way it would be comforting, because if she was mad then Sherlock wasn't – gone, because calling him dead wasn't entirely accurate at the moment – and he was still off somewhere, destroying Moriarty's network.

Sherlock remained, however, steadily lodged in her head, offering commentary and the occasional bit of amusement. Molly flipped off the light and drew up the covers, waiting for Sherlock to converse with her as he did many nights. He had been quieter than usual today.

_It has been several months now, Molly. You clearly find these appendages unpleasant. What are you waiting for?_

"I don't know what you mean," Molly replied, knowing full well that of course, Sherlock knew that she did.

_When you stop taking the pills, it can happen. It will happen. When it is time._

Molly swallowed. She had tried to avoid thinking about this, ever since Mycroft had pointed out the simple fact that anglerfish males did not survive mating. "I'm sure you've figured it all out. When it happens, you'll – you'll disappear, won't you?"

_Yes._

Tears welled up in her eyes, just imagining the level of loneliness that she couldn't quite fathom after all this time.

_But there will be a child. For you. Is that not – some consolation?_

"What if I don't want a child? What if I never wanted to be someone's mum?"

The silence was damning, and Molly realized that he had never considered that. She took a shaky breath, and added a few other things she supposed Sherlock wouldn't have considered.

"I won't be able to stay in London, you know. When it happens. Children usually favor their fathers, at least when they're born. People would know, and they're not going to buy that you made a – donation, or anything like that. And it's been too long for us to have had a fling before you died, not that anyone would have believed that, either. This means giving up everything, Sherlock. Everything in my little life. I know you don't think much of it, but I do."

_I have never called your life inadequate, Molly._

"You don't have to say it, Sherlock! I know you're bored, I know this is torture for you – " Molly froze, her heart suddenly pounding in her ears. "Wait. This really is – is it? Are you that unhappy?"

_Not entirely. I do enjoy the autopsies_ , he finally said. She had never considered what living her life really was like for Sherlock. True, he could do a bit of consulting for Mycroft through the computer, and had her drop a few clues to murders in the post for Lestrade when they saw him on Crimewatch. He often seemed eager to conjure up outrageous fantasies for her that left her breathless and shaken. Such occasions, though, must have been few and far between by comparison with the rest of her life. There were no crime scenes, no violin, no John Watson.

"Are you really that miserable?" Molly whispered. "So miserable that you'd rather be gone?"

_You are not a detective, Molly, but you are a scientist. You can observe._

Molly closed her eyes and attempted, in her own way, to collect the data. Yes, Sherlock had complained initially. Those complaints had been fewer and farther between of late, although his circumstances had not changed. He intruded less frequently into her thoughts and conversations. And his voice seemed...tired, of late, flat and less engaged. As if none of it mattered to him anymore.

"You're depressed," Molly said, feeling her heart sink with guilt. She should have tried harder to keep him amused, to keep his mind occupied.

_That may well be, Molly, but I suspect – that what we have tried to prevent is occurring regardless._

She swallowed. This was not a dimming of Sherlock's flame from a lack of fuel, but his very light fading out. "You're dying anyway. Even if I'm not pregnant you'll fade away eventually no matter what I do. Why didn't you tell me?"

_Those who would be most affected have already experienced my death, Molly, with the exception of yourself and my brother. And as I have noted, our current predicament clearly brings you no joy. Your efforts to rebuild your life have, however._ She curled into the blankets of her bed, trying to imagine his arms winding around her in the warmth, and she swore she could feel a ghostly embrace over her form, a recycled memory – she could no longer say whose it was.

_Your life had fallen into disrepair while I was gone, Molly. You were waiting, for no viable reason. Even if there must be changes, you will feel ready to make them now. I know you will not give up. If you do not desire motherhood, after all we do not know if it is even wise to attempt it, then there is no need for you to –_

"No. Stop. I can't –" Molly bit the inside of her lip, unable to even put into words the thought that this was all she had left of him, all anyone had left of him, that as much as it terrified her any alternative felt worse...or might well be worse, recalling the dead man (the wrongness of the wounds, the scars, the necrotic tissue, the contagion) on her table that had started this entire mess.

"All right," she said softly. "I have one pack of pills left. Twenty-eight days, Sherlock. We'll do – anything that needs to be done. Anything that needs to be settled. Then I'm all yours."

_Thank you, Molly._


	10. Chapter 10

Twenty-eight days. At the end of that time, the decline in artificial hormones from her contraceptive pills would theoretically allow the transition into a pregnancy to begin...if that was what would actually happen. There was always the possibility of dying horribly to consider, but with any luck, she would be the lone, successful subject in this trial. Or at the very least, the subject who survived. She'd hate to see the adverse effects paperwork for "absorbed sexual partner with the exception of his testicles and spawned." Molly had never enjoyed research methods, but she firmly believed that whoever designed this nightmare deserved to be sent back to that class to review a few things. Molly sat on her sofa with a pad and pen, prepared to make what she hoped was a fairly short pre-motherhood bucket list. Although now that she had her chance, she wasn't sure what to actually put on the list.

"We'll go see my cousin in Cornwall."

_Boring._

"No, no, no. You have to share me, Sherlock. I like it there. Hell, maybe I'll move there. What do you have?"

_Finish the experiment on the differences in decay rates of tissues in various forms of fresh versus seawater._ He paused. _We can get salt water when we're in Cornwall._

"Very good," Molly said approvingly, and continued her list. She didn't consider it wise to go far from home, under the circumstances, which removed most travel, and she noted the need to finish a few work projects before she would have to resign from Bart's and start somewhere new. They plotted to visit a few rather interesting exhibits, and Molly listed friends she wanted to see for one last night at the pub. Not the most thrilling "bucket list," perhaps, but somehow Molly found it fitting; her life had always been small, and there was no call to change that now.

"Anything else, Sherlock?" Molly asked, doodling a flower in the corner of the pad.

_John. I would like you to see John._

"Oh. All – all right. I will, then." John, she wrote at the bottom of the list. "There. I think that's plenty to do."

_Certainly. Thank you, Molly. Shall we begin with the decomposition research?_ She nodded in reply, and opened up her computer, logging on to the library website to begin their literature review. They might as well start somewhere, and what would be more fitting than one of their last planned projects?

The next morning, Molly made her way to Bart's, looking through texts she had exchanged with friends about getting together in the next couple of weeks, plus an enthusiastic email from her cousin about the possibility of a weekend in Cornwall. Everything was going surprisingly well, and so Molly supposed she shouldn't have been surprised to find Mycroft Holmes and a couple of minions waiting for her in the lab. Sherlock's brother was looking around her lab with a slight moue of distaste, and Molly supposed he wasn't as fond of the scent of formaldehyde as Sherlock had been.

_What is he doing here?_ Sherlock almost snarled, and Molly raised her eyebrows in reply. "What are you doing here, Mr. Holmes?" She asked. Mycroft nodded to the two men with him, who stepped outside the door.

"You sent an unusual number of texts and emails over the past 24 hours, Miss Hooper. Suddenly you have an intense interest in the local pubs and restaurants, whereas your interest has previously been far more subdued. I had presumed you were going to wait for some answers, Miss Hooper."

Molly's eyes widened, and a flush of anger ripped through her initial concern. "You said my flat wasn't bugged!"

At that, Mycroft Holmes smiled faintly. "Your flat, no. Your phone and computer, on the other hand, do not escape my notice. Now don't bother lying to me, there's no point, and besides it doesn't suit you. I take it you and my brother have decided to – conclude this experiment."

"We have," Molly said firmly, fighting for calm because Mycroft could respect nothing less. "I have reason to believe that Sherlock's ability to survive in his current state is declining. And while I know it's a risk, I'm willing to accept that for – the possibility of some kind of future for both of us."

"And you think this is wise, Miss Hooper?"

"No, it isn't wise, not in the least. It's risky and foolhardy and absurd. But Sherlock is fading, Mr. Holmes. He is dying, and I have completely run out of tricks to stop that from happening." Mycroft blanched at that, and Molly fought the urge to lay a hand on his arm, knowing any comfort she offered was unlikely to be appreciated. She clasped her hands together behind her back instead, hoping Sherlock would forgive her for what she would say next.

"And that's why I need you to help me," Molly blurted, surprising herself with the speed of her response.

_What are you doing?_ Sherlock's voice cut through her consciousness like a knife. Mycroft eyed her suspiciously, folding his arms and staring down at her with the kind of gaze that Sherlock used to intimidate people. She wouldn't let that happen, not today.

"They'll try to interfere with us when they realize what I'm doing. You'll need to make us disappear."

"I don't know what Sherlock may have told you, Miss Hooper, but I am not some sort of god." 

"Of course you're not, but you can change the records, make new ones."

"You're already on their radar, and you'll be flagged for monitoring as soon as your pregnancy is noted. They know you were exposed through contamination in the mortuary. I don't know what you think I can do for you, Miss Hooper. From the very moment you both allowed your hormones to distract you, you became part of this experiment."

"Fine, if that's what you want." Molly stomped forward, standing far closer to Mycroft Holmes than he was used to anyone being, and utterly unwilling to break her own angry gaze. "A bloody laboratory crèche, will that be it? So they can observe every development in my child. Sherlock's child, Mr. Holmes. The very last Holmes, from what he's said about your family. Poked and prodded and alone, because I do not believe for one instant that the people who came up with this scheme will see any reason to risk the interference of a mother objecting to their experiments. Is that what you want to happen? Would that have been good enough for Sherlock?"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, and Molly thought she saw a soft wave of sadness pass through him. He turned away, his jaw clenched as he cast his eyes over the glassware and chemicals spread over the lab bench she had often shared with Sherlock. She didn't dare to move or speak again, afraid to disturb the spreading, cascading activation of a Holmes thought process.

_Quite right,_ Sherlock said softly. _Let him think it through._

"Australia," Mycroft said finally. "Or perhaps New Zealand. It's greener, and the quantity of potted plants in your flat suggests you would desire a garden. I don't believe you speak a foreign language, Miss Hooper, so I am unsure of using that particular option. We used Sherlock's gathered intelligence to remove a few remaining loose ends of Moriarty's, so that will not be a barrier."

He pivoted like a soldier to face her again, and she nodded. She felt painfully aware that she was out of her depth now, and very possibly would not even have Sherlock's help in the end. "You have a certain way with words, Miss Hooper, despite your occasional difficulties in actually saying them. You will have my assistance, when you require it."

With that declaration, Mycroft Holmes walked out of her lab, and Molly almost gasped at the flood of emotion that passed through her. Her knowledge that they would be safe, yes, but something else, something that did not belong to her, pure, intense relief.

_You will be safe, Molly. Both of you._ Molly nodded and hoisted herself onto a stool by the lab bench. She laid her head down on her arms, sighing tiredly. She didn't have that much time left, and every moment seemed all the more precious.

_Really, Molly? Are we going to start sentimentalizing this whole process now?_

"Oh shut it, you git," Molly muttered, "Behave or I'll swap this sarcoidosis case for two boring myocardial infarctions."

After a long day of an autopsy, grand rounds, and Toby rather unfortunately hacking up a hairball in her slippers, Molly was more than happy to relax on her sofa with a glass of wine and an embarrassingly trashy romance novel.

_Oh, honestly. Peeled back rose petal layers?_ Sherlock sneered. _Exactly how many labia does our fair heroine have? Is there a science fiction twist here that I've missed?_

"That would be bloody ironic," Molly replied, snapping the book shut. Relaxation time was apparently at an end.

_It's hardly my fault that this author has an appalling sense of metaphor. Besides, your ideas are far more fascinating, although I suppose we have explored most of those already._

Molly rolled her eyes and dragged herself towards the bathroom to brush her teeth. "We could add some other variety if you're bored. You're not the only man I've ever fantasized about, you know."

_Hm. Somehow I doubt we have the same taste in men._

"You have a taste in men?" Molly blurted, and blushed, making Sherlock chuckle to himself.

_Yes. Do keep up, Molly. And you apparently have a taste in women, which I confess I failed to observe. I must say, I did rather like...Anna._

Molly groaned and wrinkled her nose at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I liked her too, but...it's weird now. I mean, I might see her again."

_Unlikely. As I noted. Besides which, you used to see me all the time, and judging by the décor of your mind palace, I was apparently a frequent visitor to your mental boudoir._

"Yes. And do recall how calm and unruffled I was when I did. Also, please don't use the phrase mental boudoir ever again." She slipped between her sheets, loving the way the cool cotton skimmed over her skin.

_Mmm. Well, if you're not in the mood for her...I'm sure I could find an alternative._ Molly smiled and settled in, letting her eyes fall closed. A lush, formal sitting room seemed to materialize around her. Sherlock's taste seemed in evidence in the rich wall coverings and classical furniture (with a distinct lack of cat hair).

_So. Not Anna. No one familiar to you, then._ A vaguely female form appeared in front of her, and slowly morphed into – 

"Is that Cheryl Cole? Are you suddenly daft?"

_Fine_ , Sherlock huffed. _Something a little more advanced_. The woman's image shimmered and shifted, her eyes turning icy blue and full of unspoken wit.

"No," Molly whispered. "Not Miss Adler. And – she's dead, that's a bit creepy."

_Not exactly dead, no. Don't repeat that, by the way. But that's not quite what you want tonight, either. So choosy, Molly. I think I know just the thing._ The image flickered, grew taller and a bit curvier, the flesh around her breasts and thighs thickening slightly. Long ginger hair tumbled over this woman's shoulders and her hazel eyes sparkled with warmth.

_This is Kate. I take it from your increased respiratory rate that she is more to your liking?_ Molly nodded, faintly noticing the way her heart already thudded wildly against her ribs.

_Kate is going to kiss you first. She's quite old-fashioned that way._ Molly could imagine it without hesitation, soft, full lips pressed warmly to her own, over and over again until a pink tongue darted teasingly into her mouth.

_Not very professional, is it? Of course, maybe she isn't a professional at all. Just a girl you pulled, walking through the market or sitting at a café. Although a professional would have more interesting accessories in that black bag of hers. Not that anything about this is professional – she can kiss your neck like so, won't mind if you're running your hands over her flanks._ Molly's hands slid down the back of Kate's thighs, and took in a sharp breath as Kate's white teeth nipped at her shoulder.

_She is a professional_ , Sherlock murmured, sounding rather like he was coming to a decision. _But you deduced what she was, just talking to her. She was so pleased with you, Molly. She can tell you're special._ Kate smiled, murmured to Molly that she should relax. Molly was happy to comply, letting Kate gently lift her arms above her head.

_Would you prefer handcuffs, or – no, you'd prefer this._ Molly sighed in contentment as a swirl of braided ropes attached her to the headboard. Kate nuzzled along Molly's ribs and looked up at her with a smile that would have made Molly forget Sherlock Holmes ever existed if they'd met in real life.

"Safe word is spleen," she said cheekily, and stretched up to nip at Molly's earlobe. She straddled Molly's hips and admired her for a moment. She cupped Molly's breasts and massaged them gently, flicking her thumbs over her nipples until they were hard peaks.

_Her touch is very gentle, isn't it? But I think you can take more, Molly._ Kate's grip tightened into a pinch, and Molly gasped for breath. _Ah yes. You quite enjoyed it when I did that to you. And you liked this even more._ Kate tossed ginger hair out of her way as she leaned in to suck Molly's breast roughly into her mouth, while lightly teasing the other with her fingers.

_Are you getting wet for her?_ Sherlock asked calmly, and Molly nodded, not quite finding words when Kate's hips, clad in green satin knickers, were sliding against her mound. She could only whimper when Kate shifted, taking away the pressure Molly had been enjoying so much. Molly wanted to pull her back, kiss her again, but her hands remained trapped against the headboard. 

_This isn't like that. You're at her mercy, Molly. You like it that way._ Instead Kate pushed Molly's thighs further apart, dipping her fingers between Molly's labia to swirl around her clit. Molly's heels scrabbled against the mattress and she let out a little whine at Kate's touch not being quite where she wanted it.

"Now, now. Be good, Molly. Or no treats for you," Kate purred. 

_You want something inside you,_ Sherlock said, with no question involved this time. Molly supposed he could feel the ache of her muscles tightening against nothing.

"Yes. Inside. Please," Molly directed her pleading to her ginger tormentor rather than her unseen narrator. Kate grinned, her eyes sparkling.

"If you like. But I think you need something special," Kate told her slyly. She leaned over and picked up a bag that Molly hadn't noticed on the bed, taking out a bottle and something that made Molly's heart pound even harder. Kate slid down the bed, hauling Molly's legs up over her shoulders. She licked into Molly's cunt, nose pressed into the nest of hair above while she pressed her hand against Molly's belly.

Oh, interesting, Sherlock interrupted, and Molly realized that she hadn't noticed his narration stop. And when Sherlock fell quiet, the fantasy had very much become her own. She sank into the lushness of Kate's tongue teasing her, the heel of Kate's hand rocking aginst her clit.

_You're ready for more now_ , Sherlock stated, and Molly whimpered, "Yes, more," just in case Kate couldn't actually hear Sherlock.

Kate smiled and pulled away, picking up the items she'd removed from the bag earlier. She poured lubricant over her hand and smeared it messily over the toy and between the cheeks of Molly's arse. She teased for only a moment before sliding the slim toy past the tight ring of muscle. The sensation was odd, pleasurable but odd, but then Kate flicked her tongue over Molly's clit and she gasped. The volume had _definitely_ been turned up to eleven, as it were.

_You can feel the contractions more intensely, can't you?_ Sherlock growled, sounding eminently curious...and Molly thought, rather aroused. _And her mouth on your clitoris is perfect, no doubt. She is very skilled._

"God, yes – oh, fuck-" Molly moaned, arching her back and trying to grind further into Kate's mouth. Then Kate slid two lube-soaked fingers into her cunt, curling them until Molly nearly leapt off the bed, straining against the ropes. Kate pulled her mouth away, focusing her efforts on plunging and crooking her fingers inside Molly as she toyed with the plug in her arse. Molly's senses narrowed to the aching fullness and the soft, wet sound of Kate's fingers fucking and teasing her. Then Kate leaned in again, sucking tenderly on Molly's clit until her breathing grew frantic. She pulled away again, licking her lips, and Molly grunted out of sheer frustration.

_She could do this for some time_ , Sherlock said. _But I think you'd like to come, wouldn't you, Molly?_

"Yes, yes – oh please, please, Kate. Please let me come," Molly pleaded, and tried not to be distracted by the flash of Kate's white teeth, how she wanted to feel them on her skin.

"If you insist," Kate said warmly, and dipped her head back to Molly's clit, sucking and flicking her tongue over the swollen nub. Molly's thighs trembled, every nerve ending on fire, and she almost sobbed as the sensation of pleasure crested, rocking her hips against the lush duvet beneath her as the strokes of Kate's tongue and fingers softened and slackened, letting Molly float through each flutter of her climax.

Then the ropes were gone, and Molly eased her arms down as Kate slunk gracefully up her body. They kissed over and over, and Molly moaned as Kate's thumb flicked over her sore breast. The room's shadows shifted, closer to darkness and candlelight. Molly slid one of her thighs between Kate's, slowly rocking the way they had earlier.

"Oh – oh, that's good, Molly. That feels so –" Kate sighed deliciously, then glanced up and grinned, pulling Molly onto her side.

"What – " Molly began to say, and then gasped as she felt Sherlock's arm snake around her waist, his hard chest at her back and his mouth pressed hotly to her neck.

"Experiment's over," Sherlock murmured. "Well, mostly."

Molly laughed, "God, you really are such a bloke." She sighed, arching back into him as Sherlock held out her breast to Kate, who captured her nipple in her mouth again with a soft, low giggle.

"I am," Sherlock said, faintly amused. "I wasn't aware there was any question of that."

Molly reached for Kate, pulling her close to kiss her, sliding her tongue along the ginger woman's plump bottom lip. She liked the warm press of Kate's silky skin against her own, and hooked her hand over the other woman's thigh, stroking until she just brushed the damp folds of her vulva. She giggled when she felt Sherlock's cock nestled stiffly between the cheeks of her arse.

"I think he likes the show," Molly whispered to Kate, and tipped her head back to steal a wet, messy kiss from Sherlock. 

"Mmmm. So do I," Kate murmured, grinding eagerly into Molly. The heat of two bodies around her left Molly's skin slippery with sweat, and her breasts seemed to slide against Kate's as Molly sank two fingers into the slick heat between Kate's thighs. She could smell Kate's perfume and Sherlock's aftershave and the musky scent of their arousal mingling as Sherlock eagerly worked the head of his cock into her own cunt.

"Sherlock?" Molly said breathily, shivering as she felt him slide more deeply inside her.

"Mm?" He asked idly, thrusting into her to start a slow, rolling rhythm.

"You really do have the best ideas," Molly said, gasping as she gave herself up to the rest of the fantasy.


	11. Chapter 11

Slowly but surely, Molly and Sherlock ticked off their modest bucket list, with the less said about Molly's attempt to wear a swimsuit in Cornwall the better. With Mycroft's assistance, Molly found herself with a position at a hospital in Christchurch, New Zealand, with a possible opportunity for research at the University of Otago. A note from Mycroft's assistant indicated that the research opportunity was unexpectedly added on, based solely on Molly's qualifications. She smiled softly at that, despite the lurch of sadness at the thought of leaving Bart's and London and, well, everything. And would she even have time for additional research with a child in her life? Would they want her when she ended up expecting so soon after her arrival?

_I sincerely doubt anyone would mind, Molly. New Zealand's fertility rate recently began to decline._

"I'm not sure people generally consider these situations in the grand scheme of things. Still, I suppose Mycroft wouldn't just let that be a complete surprise to them."

_What would he say? Miss Hooper will likely arrive_ enceinte, _just wait for her to mention it to be polite?_

"I suppose that would be a bit ridiculous. Right. So, is this all right to wear? I mean it's just a pub but I don't want to look like I'm on shift afterwards." Molly couldn't fathom how picking out clothes to meet a friend was somehow more complicated than deciding what to wear on an actual date, but still. She'd been staring at the contents of her wardrobe for ten minutes.

_Have you heard of skirts?_

Molly rolled her eyes. "Of course, but – "

_But it isn't a date_ , Sherlock replied. _I believe you'll find skirts are in fact acceptable at other times._

Not a date indeed, Molly thought to herself, because she was ticking off the last item on her list, the one thing she knew she absolutely had to do and yet wanted to do the least: letting Sherlock have one last look at John Watson.

"Fine," Molly huffed, and dug into her closet. "Not a lot of options there, either – "

_The short tiered skirt, Molly. Shows off your legs to great advantage and has enough camouflage for our – extra passengers._

"Right," Molly muttered, and pulled out the skirt, along with a warm yellow top. It was warm enough to skip tights, she decided, but added a pair of boots, which she thought looked a bit more playful without looking too dressy.

Sherlock just sighed.

Molly had arranged to meet John at a pub halfway between her flat and his, swallowing down her nerves about accidentally saying something along the lines of _it's been a while since Sherlock was making a mess in my lab, now he's doing it in my frontal lobe._ Still, she broke into a genuine smile as the doctor's face appeared in the doorway of the pub, his own expression brightening slightly as he made his way towards her spot by the bar. True, the stress of losing Sherlock had left him a bit more gray on top, and he seemed just slightly less practiced in smiling back at her, but he looked...well, and genuinely pleased to see her.

"Molly, it's good to see you, isn't it?" After a slightly awkward pause, he stepped forward, enfolding her in a hug that Molly found surprisingly warm – despite being around each other when Sherlock was there, they didn't exactly know each other all that well – and then regardless of what she had ever felt towards John Watson, there was no mistaking what she was feeling in this very instant. A hot flush prickled over the back of her neck, her cheeks coloring. Her heart thudded so mercilessly in her chest that she didn't know how John didn't feel it, and her palms suddenly felt damp against his leather jacket. The scent of his aftershave reached her nose, and a tight warmth surged in her belly.

John smiled, stepping back. "My shout. What are you having?"

Molly blinked, not entirely sure of what was happening to her. "Um – right. Cider, please. I'll just – " She fluttered her hand, attempting to indicate that she'd snag a table for them. No, she'd never been all that attracted to John Watson, much less feeling giddily excited to be around him...which led her to believe that something else was affecting her physiological responses.

She gritted her teeth, muttering to herself, "You seem to have left out some details about your relationship with John, Sherlock." And that was confusing in and of itself, because she wouldn't even be in this particular mess if Sherlock hadn't been willing to indulge himself with her, and he had plainly known what he was doing...

_The two things are not mutually exclusive, Molly. Also, if you do not perceive that John is in fact quite heterosexual it can only be because you have missed every single time he has glanced at your breasts in the past sixty seconds._

"He was glancing at my breasts?!" Molly murmured under her breath, unable to tamp down the vague edge of panic in her voice.

_Not sure that implies actual interest, mind you. Sort of a habit of his. Terrible for detective work but I could never persuade him to give it up._

The man in question settled down beside her on the bench, sliding the pint of cider towards her, and Molly shyly thanked him, trying not to check John's gaze for interested glances.

"So. How are things at Bart's?" John began, and Molly took the opportunity to ramble about interns and Mike Stamford and studiously avoided the gory details of a really fascinating autopsy she had conducted last week. Although she did share the rather awkward moment where both of the man's wives had arrived to identify his body, which made John laugh.

_He looks older_ , Sherlock said quietly, and the words tightened around her heart like a vise.

"And how are you?" Molly asked hesitantly. Before he could even speak she blurted, "Not that you have to tell me, if you're sick of talking about it. It's just – hard to imagine you without him. Oh no, that probably sounds bizarre, doesn't it?"

"Molly – " John reached out, laid his hand over hers, which had the rather discomfiting effect of making her heart apparently flip in her chest cavity.

_My God, is this what it was like for you to be around me?_ Sherlock muttered. _No wonder you could barely get through a sentence sometimes._

Molly thought it was out of sheer annoyance that she turned her palm up, squeezing John's hand.

"It's fine," John said, "Maybe not with everyone but with you – it's fine."

Molly dipped her head, beaming softly, and around halfway through her glass of cider, the conversation began to flow more easily, shifting from their work back to Sherlock, and one of John's favorite cases. After her second cider, Molly thought her earlier nerves were just foolish. Talking to John was a true pleasure, especially when he gave his version of some of the cases he had worked on with Sherlock. She also didn't mind when he had to scoot a little closer along the padded leather bench as the pub filled up with an after-work crowd. 

_That's not how it went. Why did anyone read his blog if I seemed like such a bloody idiot?_

"God yes, the case at the stables. He came in covered in straw, demanding to see the man's liver!" Molly did her best to ignore Sherlock's miniature rants; she was rather enjoying herself for once. "I remember Sherlock's version of it – I like hearing yours as well." Molly tipped her head back against the bench, her shoulders relaxing beneath the weight of a couple of well-earned drinks. John didn't need to touch her knee when he leaned in to speak to her over the increasing din of the pub, but she smiled easily when he did, the tension of fearing that she would somehow ruin everything drained away in the bottom of her glass.

"It's getting a bit packed in here," John said, and he seemed to hesitate only slightly before adding, "I'm not far from here, if you want to talk someplace with less racket."

_Oh, honestly_ , Sherlock said disgustedly. _As if talking is what's on his mind. He's so transparent, Molly, I don't know how you can find it even faintly alluring._

"Jealous?" Molly murmured, confident that she couldn't be heard over the loud conversation of the group beside them, and slid her arms into her jacket as John held it up for her.

_Merely familiar with his pulling technique_ , Sherlock replied, which made her bite her lip to hold back a giggle. The evening wasn't likely to head in quite that direction, for what Molly thought were obvious reasons, and yet...John had a singular way of making her feel at the center of his attention, from his warm smile to the way his hand gently pressed into the small of her back as they passed through a doorway. Now that she expected the little frissons of excitement, she could enjoy the briskness of the evening air against her reddened cheeks and the giddiness that made her toes curl in her boots.

John's flat was plainer and more organized than the Baker Street flat he'd shared with Sherlock, the only hint of clutter being a few magazines and medical journals scattered across the coffee table. He poured them both a scotch, and Molly rolled the taste around in her mouth, feeling the silence between them now that the music and chatter of the pub was gone. If John's pulling technique was actually in play, it didn't seem all that effective.

"Are you hungry? I could probably find something for us in there...?"

Molly brightened. "I seem to recall Sherlock describing your cooking anything other than beans on toast as a minor threat. Why don't you let me?" She hopped up, making her way into the kitchen.

_You can barely cook. And you're – tipsy, as Mrs. Hudson might say._

Molly ignored Sherlock's complaint, digging around in the cabinets for a bit until to her relief she came up with what she wanted – a bag of pretzels and a jar of Nutella. John, leaning against his kitchen table, raised an eyebrow at her.

"I remembered Sherlock saying you tended to have these around. And they are wonderful together!" Molly dipped a pretzel into the Nutella jar and held it up to John's mouth. John took it, chewing at first a little skeptically, before breaking into a smile.

"Bloody hell, that's perfect." Molly giggled, and dipped a pretzel for herself. Not a snack that particularly went with scotch, per se, but it was an indulgence, and Molly thought they could both use that.

"Now just one moment, Molly – " John said with mock sternness, and she looked up bemusedly. "Not the neatest Nutella eater, are you?" 

John pulled her hand to his lips, brushing against the stripe of hazelnut cream from the jar's edge. Molly had to admit, even without Sherlock's influence that would have sent a blush over her cheeks. She watched, her mouth feeling a little dry as John turned her hand over in his, a thumb softly tracing over the fleshiest part of her palm. The intimacy was simple, would barely make a Regency heroine blink, and yet Molly realized how very long it had been since anyone had actually touched her...or for that matter, even looked at her the way John was looking at her. 

Besides which, she was realizing how much she actually liked him, she'd always thought of him as nice, but now she could see how funny and charming and warm he could be.

Bloody hell, this actually _was_ John's pulling technique. And it was working.

_Molly._ There was something anxious in Sherlock's tone, a hint that he wasn't sure she should take things in this direction – but why not, Molly thought. When would be the next time she'd have a chance?

_Actually, a surprising number of men have a fetish for pregnant females, Molly._

"Oh, shut up," Molly muttered, "This is what you wanted anyway."

"Sorry? I didn't say anything," John said, blinking with confusion.

"No, I'm just – talking to myself," Molly replied. "I'm ridiculous sometimes, just – oh, fuck it." She stepped forward, throwing her arms around John's neck and pressing her lips to his. He stumbled briefly, clutching at her waist before taking control of the embrace, brushing his tongue across her lips, asking her to open to him. Molly complied with the press of her body against his, running her hand over the bristly hair at the back of his neck and tasting the smoky scotch on his breath. John wasn't precisely her type, but on the other hand he also wasn't a cascade of energy through an axonal network. He was real, a live, flesh and blood man who wanted her, if only for the moment. She could definitely work with that.

In the meantime John had certainly decided he could work with her. He kissed her neck while his hand slid down to cup her arse through her skirt, which Molly now considered a brilliant fashion decision. She couldn't imagine John was feeling all that comfortable in that jumper now, so she would just help him pull it off. She fussed with the buttons of her own blouse as they stumbled backward, her bum finally stopped by the kitchen table. The rough feel of wood against the back of her thighs reminded her of the reality of this moment – this was John Watson, for heaven's sake, and even if she wanted him for the moment, she actually had to make sure he didn't encounter anything he wasn't expecting, even as he slid his hand into her opened top, brushing down her bra strap to leave a bruising kiss along the top of her breast.

Maybe it wasn't all that surprising, Molly supposed, that two people who loved Sherlock would try to forget that in each other. It should have been warm and gentle, an offer of solace. Instead they shared this rush of hands and mouths and trying not to think about what they were doing, and that was fine with Molly, because that expected sweetness might involve taking off her clothes, which was simply out of the question in her current state. Instead, she nudged him back, demanding just a little space, a little room to catch the breath that gasped out of her with every second. Then she shimmied her hips, hooking her thumbs into the edge of her knickers and easing them down until she could delicately step out of them, then perched on the edge of the kitchen table, her skirt bunching up around her hips.

Oh, he's going to love that, Sherlock told her, his words flitting through her mind as John's hungry gaze fixed onto her. A fresh wave of heat building at her core surged as John stroked her knee, just barely brushing along her inner thigh.

"That's a bit dirty, isn't it, Miss Hooper?" He murmured into her ear, and Molly shuddered. He slipped his hand beneath her skirt, making her breath catch in her throat as his hand glided right to where she absolutely needed it, his fingers not quite breaching the wetness between her thighs but settling into a gently teasing rhythm that made her want to jerk her hips towards him. 

"I think you don't mind being a bit dirty," Molly replied, and grabbed his arse to pull him closer to her. John kissed her again, and she dizzily noted that now she knew what he tasted like, knew exactly how it felt when the warm, dry skin of his fingers sank into the slick wetness between her thighs. She couldn't exactly claim that she'd never thought about it, but her fantasies had always intertwined him with Sherlock, as inseparable in her mind as they were in real life.

_This will be more than satisfactory, I think you'll find._ Molly hummed in agreement as she stroked her hand over the bulge in John's jeans. She fumbled blindly with his zip, tipping her head back to give John more access to her throat. Her small hands were very advantageous for slipping into a half-open fly, she discovered quickly, easily catching hold of him. John's whispered "Jesus" made her giggle, and he broke away just long enough to pull a rubber out of his wallet.

"Always prepared?" Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. John tore the packet open and she helped him roll it on, although she couldn't help but distract him just a little with a nip to his ear. They both giggled through playful kisses as they attempted to line up properly – it was quite possible the kitchen table wasn't the best idea she'd had, but it was right there. Then finally, finally he was seated inside her, and Molly moaned at feeling him, thick and hard and just what she wanted right now. John thrust, somewhat experimentally, and while the table wobbled it held up. She leaned back, letting him slide deeper into her cunt, and tried to hook her legs around his waist. John pitched forward, thrusting harder, making Molly gasp as she slapped a hand down on the table to keep from tipping over onto her back. The shift in his weight, however, abruptly sent the table skidding across the floor into the wall, John stumbling after it. John blinked at her in disbelief, and Molly couldn't stop herself from cracking up, which promptly set John off.

_Is sex supposed to be so funny?_ Sherlock asked, and Molly pursed her lips, barely shaking her head.

"Hang on – I'm not ending up at A&E for this," Molly said, and with far more grace than she thought she possessed at the moment, she slid off the table and bent over, flipping her skirt up behind her. She looked over her shoulder at John with what she hoped was coyness, and wiggled her bum invitingly.

John's succinct reply of "Bloody hell, Molly" suggested that it was effective, coinciding with Sherlock's derisive _Dear God, he is the simplest creature on earth. Don't know what I was thinking._ Molly tried not to snort, focusing instead on how much more she liked this angle. Her legs trembled as she rocked her hips back towards John, her palms splaying out on the table as he gripped her hips. After a false start of falling out once (and a few more giggles), they found a rhythm that was in Molly's opinion, just right. John's deep thrusts pushed her towards the edge, his bollocks slapping against her skin as he told her how she was so wet and he wanted to taste her until she couldn't stand anymore.

_This is what it's like, having him inside you_. Sherlock's voice cut into her consciousness, making her cry out softly in surprise. _What it was like, having me inside you. I did wonder._ She shuddered, reaching down to roughly rub her clit to stop herself from answering. The burn of pleasure quickly reached a peak and Molly let out a breathy moan and collapsed to the table as the pleasure crested and her muscles throbbed around John's cock. A few sharper thrusts and John followed with a rather unceremonious grunt. She felt him pull away, and Molly slowly turned around, feeling even more wobbly than she had beforehand. John quickly disposed of the condom and tucked himself away before stepping between her legs, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her again. His kiss was soft, surprisingly sweet considering what they'd just done, and Molly found herself wrapping her arms around him again, leaning in to his warmth. He nuzzled her cheek and she inhaled his scent, mingled aftershave, sweat, and the peaty scotch, wanting just one more moment before the awkwardness of "Did we really just do that?" kicked in for her.

_Molly, it may interest you to know that female anglerfish can absorb multiple mates._

Oh. The bloody pheromones. She'd forgotten about those. Molly gave John a gentle push backward to get a little breathing room. The haze of sex and alcohol was wearing off, and Molly started to get a sense of just what she looked like, sitting on a kitchen table that probably wasn't long for this world with her sweaty hair sticking to her cheek, her blouse undone and her skirt a wrinkled mess. 

"I really ought to be going. I didn't think – didn't plan to stay out so late, Toby will just tear up my flat if I'm not careful. Um, where's your loo, exactly?" She spotted her pants on the floor and began to move towards them, letting out a squeak when John suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled her back against him.

The John Watson she'd been giggling and enjoying herself with all night didn't seem to be the man who was looking at her now. He looked angry as hell, and quite possibly not as drunk as she'd thought, although she was feeling rather abruptly sober herself. His thumb was stroking along her forearm, but Molly had the creeping sense that she was seeing for the first time exactly how dangerous John could be. No wonder Sherlock loved him.

"That's enough bullshit, Molly. Mycroft Holmes paid a visit for the first time since Sherlock died and wanted to know if I'd heard from you. Why on earth would he care?"

"I don't know, how does anyone understand what any of them do, the whole bloody family –" Molly gasped as John's grip on her wrist tightened. 

And then, because she didn't know what else to do, she started to laugh, not the easygoing way she had all evening, but with a horrid, hysterical edge to it that made her cringe.

"What the hell?" John was now looking at her as if she was rigged to explode. And Molly supposed that technically, she really was.

"You wouldn’t believe me, John. Not in a million years would you ever, ever believe me." Molly let out a little wail in her laughter. "I mean, God, I can't even believe it, you know?"

"Try me," John replied, yanking out a chair from the table and gesturing for her to sit down. She wanted to just burst out with all of it, the whole mad story and how terrified she was of what was going to happen next. 

_That is literally the worst idea you have ever had_ , Sherlock snapped, _And you bought Toby a leash, for heaven's sake._

"Might as well," Molly said, ignoring Sherlock's complaints. "I'd make sure you have another drink, though. And somewhere to land." John picked up the bottle from the kitchen counter and placed it between them, and Molly grabbed it for one more swig of courage before she began to spill the whole sordid story.


	12. Chapter 12

Around 30 minutes later, John's bottle of fairly good scotch was dwindling, and he sat slumped against his kitchen cabinets where he'd been since his legs gave out when Molly described waking up to find herself literally joined at the hip with Sherlock's corpse. Molly sat across from him with her back to the refrigerator, wishing she had some ice to roll around in her glass but it seemed a bit rude to ask at this point. Her skirt was awkwardly bunched up, with Sherlock's testicles on utterly obscene display, but she supposed that was fine. It made her feel like Sherlock was included in the conversation. 

"I definitely recognize them," John said with a nod. "Sometimes he didn't bother with the sheet."

 _I'm glad you both find this so amusin_ g, Sherlock snarled, and Molly snorted. The scotch was good, so very good, and she liked the giddy glow it spread through her frame, especially after knowing how utterly deranged she must sound.

"Sorry about all of this," she said, "The sex, I mean. Probably not something we would have done. I don't think. You know this scotch is really fantastic, is it from Islay?" She blinked, trying to refocus on their conversation. "Right. Like I was saying. Sorry. I hadn't really – spent enough time with anyone to make the pheromones go off, I guess."

 _Wrong_ , Sherlock muttered, but Molly decided to ignore him for now.

"I beg your pardon." John pointed at her, or at least to a point several degrees to the left of her. "Pheromones or not, that was great sex. I'd prove it again, but I think we both know that's...not happening. And surprisingly I think it's more about how shit-faced I am than you having Sherlock's bloody balls attached to you."

"Thank you, I think." Molly closed her eyes briefly, wondering if it was inappropriate to spend the night on John's kitchen floor. It would be so much easier than getting a cab at this hour.

"I mean it would be a little weird, but I don't know, with that out of the way we could - Fucking hell. Do you think if I keep drinking this I can forget the entire conversation? Or very firmly believe the entire thing was a hallucination?" John's expression shifted to reflect what Molly suspected was a great deal of pain, and she nudged her foot alongside his in comfort.

"So he wasn't dead. And now he is."

"Mostly, yeah. I mean, I still – I hear him talking? As long as these are here, apparently." She waved at her abdomen. Also, she thought to herself, _I've been in some sort of weird sexual arrangement with him for the past six months that exists entirely in the confines of my brain._

"Well. Tell him, Molly...tell him he's a git. And that I loved him dearly."

 _Oh._ Molly froze. Had Sherlock genuinely not realized that? How much they all loved him, in their way? Suddenly she wanted to cry, and Islay and its prime whisky could go straight to hell. She kicked her foot slightly against John's shin.

"Well you're a git, too. You knew something was up and you waited until we had sex to talk about it."

"Course I did. Have you seen you?" John gestured at her with a flapping hand and Molly raised her eyebrows, considering that she currently looked like she'd had an unfortunate encounter with the centrifuge at work.

"Right. Anyway, I should go. Lots to do tomorrow," Molly pitched forward onto all fours, using a kitchen chair to lever herself up. She smoothed her clothing into place, deciding to give up her knickers as a lost cause. 

"Of course, yeah." John dragged himself to standing with only a small amount of assistance from the kitchen counter. "Listen, I'll call you – we could get dinner next week, attempt to act like normal people again."

"Probably not a good idea," Molly said, pulling out her phone to request a cab.

"What, because of this – business?" He waved at her stomach.

"No, no, not that. I – I'm leaving, is all. Leaving London. I didn't want to say anything. I didn't think you'd really notice." Molly bit her lip. "But I think I've made myself a bit more present, you know? And I didn't mean to do that."

"Ah," John said, and did his best to square himself up despite listing to the left. "Hard to imagine Bart's without you. Where are you headed?"

"New Zealand – it's – well it's a wonderful opportunity for me," she added as John's eyebrows practically met his scalp. "Mycroft helped me out a bit, apparently. No idea why." _Oh, and by the way, having your best mate's spawn, in about nine months or so,_ she wanted to add. _That will be taking up a good bit of my time._

_Probably a bit difficult to explain that one away, Molly._

"That's quite a change."

"I guess – I just thought I could use that." She reached for his hand. "I know it's a good change. But I also know I would never have considered it unless – " Molly felt her eyes fill with tears, but they didn’t truly spill over until John wrapped his arms around her again.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_ , Sherlock groaned. In reply Molly simply ground her teeth together and clung to John even more tightly.

"It's – it's a bit like the sun's gone out, isn't it?" John whispered to her, and Molly felt her heart stutter with an ache of longing, and fisted her hands in the damp cotton of John's shirt. One more moment of his breath and his heartbeat while the warmth of his body and his scent drowned her senses was all she wanted. This was the last thing on her list, and no part of her wanted to check it off and move on to the unknown, clouded world of what came next.

"Goodbye, John," she whispered, and pressed her lips to his cheek, the tingle of stubble scratching at her skin. She hurried down the steps and out into the street, tugging her jacket onto her shoulders. A few pedestrians passed her by, and Molly wondered if they could sense her flight from a one night stand's flat...which to be fair wasn't all that John was, but frankly it had been an absolute age since she'd done anything so impulsive.

_He'll probably try to call you. He shouldn't, but he usually gets it wrong. I attempted to explain to him an algorithm for when he should call based on his sexual partners' behaviors but he told me to shut up._

"You weren't exactly a disinterested party. Besides, you're surprised he didn't care for thoughts on casual sex from someone who doesn't have it?" Molly murmured, flagging down a cab.

_You can hardly blame me. Look at what happened when I did – a cascade of biological impossibilities that resulted in my death and absorption into your flesh in order to feed an impending spawn._

"You know, if something goes wrong during sex for normal people they just pull a muscle or get chlamydia," Molly sighed, and slumped into the taxi's back seat after giving her address.

"What happened?" the cabbie asked. She glanced at Molly in the rear view. "Do you need to go to a hospital?"

"No, no. Sorry. Talking to myself, I do that sometimes," Molly said with a laugh, hoping her smile would appease the suspicious expression on her driver's face. "Weird night, that's all. Nothing bad, just...hormones and scotch run amok, I suppose." She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat, a slight spin from the alcohol still tilting her world in the dark.

Sherlock sighed. _Pheromones had nothing to do with it, Molly. As I said, John's pulling strategy is rather...predictable. Mind you I'm not sure that was his original plan, but he is quite easily distracted by even the possibility of sex. Besides which, if the pheromones had an effect on every man you would have been fending off suitors left and right for months._

Molly blinked, sitting up ramrod straight and crossing her legs, suddenly mindful of the fact that she'd left her pants somewhere in John Watson's kitchen. Sherlock had a point. She had been surrounded by men on the tube, in the streets, encountered dozens of them at Bart's...without the slightest hint of interest directed her way.

Molly pulled out her phone and pressed some buttons, simulating a text. "What the bloody hell are you saying?" she muttered, while filling her screen with gibberish.

_Mycroft was not wrong. You were susceptible to me. However I believe that susceptibility may have in fact been mutual._

_Susceptible_ , Molly mouthed to herself. Leave it to Sherlock to make love sound like hospital-acquired pneumonia. 

_Love is merely chemistry, Molly. I am speaking of histocompatibility. The genes of your immune system and mine were heterozygotic enough to be highly appealing at a purely animalistic level. Admittedly I did have a vague idea that it might be the case, but the pheromones amplified the effect to the point where ignoring it was less convenient than indulgence. If what happened to us was simply about sexual response to you – your pheromones and your arousal alone, we would have just proved that._

Molly rolled her neck, feeling tension build, and again made some tapping gestures towards her phone before holding it up to her ear. The driver peered back at her in the mirror, and Molly responded with a slightly sneery version of a smile.

"Do you mean to tell me," She said, employing a deadly calm usually reserved for medical students who thought cadaver pranks were hilarious, "That you weren't sure if you actually fancied me all this time on some weird, primal level and you just let me shag your best friend to find out if you and I were compatible? You don't think that was a little risky?"

She wasn't terribly surprised when the cab driver cursed and took a rather lurching turn around the corner.

 _I was confident that I could intervene if there were any potential complications._ His voice darkened. _Besides, while anyone would likely consider that a highly successful tryst, did that even faintly compare with your experience with me?_ Molly blushed hotly at that, her sense memory of how Sherlock smelled and tasted, how perfectly his body seemed to fit with her own flooding her awareness. She'd been feeling perfectly sated and suddenly every cell in her body ached with arousal. Oh, she'd certainly had fun with John, but she'd worked for her pleasure instead of drowning in it. 

"True," Molly said, trying to ignore the sudden trembling of her hand around the phone. "Although he is rather fit, and there's absolutely no point in pretending you don't agree with me."

_Fit, and yet you barely noticed him when the three of us were in a room together. Biology is quite a powerful force, Molly._

The taxi finally pulled up in front of her block of flats, and Molly quickly paid the driver and hurried inside. She needed water and aspirin and maybe bread or something...but first she was going to soothe the heavy ache in her cunt, because what John had bloody worked half the night to achieve, Sherlock had managed with a single sentence.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last! Thanks for sticking with this.

Molly slogged through her hangover the next day, refusing to engage in any task more complicated than watching crap telly and eating pot noodles, to Sherlock's abject horror. She reminded him that he was consigning her to nine months of healthy eating and minimal alcohol, not to mention a lifetime of being a good example, so he could stuff it for 24 hours. She also took her final placebo pill, knowing that this likely meant the process of the pregnancy would begin soon. The effect was not instantaneous (as Sherlock pointed out, going off the pill did not flip a magic switch on her fertility), and Molly spent the next week wondering when, exactly the transition might occur.

Ten days after her pill stopped, Molly blinked her eyes open at the sound of her alarm, noticing a slight ache like a sore muscle in her lower abdomen.

_Ah, Molly. Good morning. You are finally ovulating._ She sat bolt upright in bed, yanking up the edge of her pajama top to see if the growths were still there. Indeed, they still sat rudely at the side of her belly.

_I believe you have a bit more time than that,_ Sherlock said, with surprising warmth. _Could we perhaps...have lunch out today?_

"Of course," Molly said, suddenly aware that this might be Sherlock's last day with her, and of course, his last day with his _true_ love, London. She bit her lip, determined not to be upset. The last thing he needed was her sentiment clogging up the works. "We've got the Cavanaugh autopsy this morning of course, but after that – of course."

_Perfection. Especially if he was poisoned as you suspect._ Molly smiled at that, and rolled out of bed, stretching and yawning.

To Sherlock's delight, Cavanaugh had been poisoned, to less of his delight it was an open and shut case for Lestrade.

_I was hoping he would at least have to miss me. It would have been suitable._

"He misses you plenty, believe me. And so will I." Molly looked out onto the city from the edge of the hospital roof, watching everyone bustling to and fro through their day, everyone from hospital staff to students to tourists. She took a deep breath and tried not to think of his leap from this very roof a few months ago. "I think – a walk by the Thames after work, yeah? It's a bit out of the way but it should be a pleasant evening."

_Molly, there is no guarantee that this will occur so quickly –_

"But you think it will. If you didn't you'd have corrected me long ago. You think odds are that it'll happen soon."

_Well it certainly won't happen if you're constantly fretting about when it will._

"Excuse me?" Molly stepped further away from the edge of the roof, brushing her hair away when it lashed at her face. "I am not – I am not fretting."

_The first transition occurred following intimacy, Molly, and the second while you were sleeping after finally having a decent meal and a proper sleep. Odds are that this one will also take place under similar circumstances – when you are feeling sated. I believe that our inclination to, shall we say_ practice _together might have something to do with that._

"Oh." Molly swallowed, realizing that pure curiosity – or even interest in her specifically – hadn't been as much of a factor as she'd hoped. It stung a bit, and yet Sherlock considered it to be essentially teamwork. 

_Naturally, Molly. We've always worked well together._ She could hear the smirk as he added, _And I have ensured that you are very well rested lately._

After her evening stroll, Molly returned home, drank down some chamomile tea, fed Toby, and settled into bed. 

"Well, Sherlock. It's been – quite awful, actually. But I hope this will work."

_Indeed. A great deal depends upon our success._

Molly snuggled into her bed, curling her arms around her pillow. Somehow agreeing to a mutual lucid dream was the least bizarre thing they'd experienced in the past few months. "This one is yours, Sherlock. I've decided. I know you'll just say that you don't, but – let me see your dream. A real one, not just what you think I'd like."

_My dream._ Sherlock seemed to think for a moment. _Something I want._

"Yes. Whatever you want, whatever you've longed for, I know it's only a dream but it's yours, if I – if I can give it to you. You've certainly indulged me, I should do the same for you."

_Oh, Molly Hooper._ The warm way her name rolled off his tongue could still give her shivers, after all this time.

Sleep crept in, and Molly opened her eyes, blinking briefly to take in the cluttered and comfortable room around her. She was wrapped in a gold silk dressing gown several sizes too big, curled up in a chair by a crackling fire. Her lips curled into a smile at the stack of books at her feet, including not only a few pathology books, but her beloved copies of Keats' poems and _And Then There Were None_. She shifted in her seat, noting the yellow smiley face marring the patterned wallpaper, and very nearly considered begging off her own offer because this wasn't what she'd expected at all.

Permitted to have anything in the world, Sherlock Holmes dreamt about coming home.

As she might have expected, he swept into the room, hanging up his coat and scarf by the door, and looking her over.

"Stealing my chair? You certainly haven't wasted any time." He knelt on the floor in front of her, reaching for her hand. "Of course you have been part of my mind palace for a while now, although you were previously only associated with the archives and laboratory." He wrinkled his nose slightly. "This is unexpectedly domestic, I confess."

Molly's eyes widened. "Mind palace?"

"Of course. Everything of any importance is there." Molly felt goosebumps spread over her arm, heat prickling the back of her neck as Sherlock swept his thumb over her palm and wrist. His features seemed to soften, a sense of calmness setting in with his familiar trappings surrounding him. "And you are indeed of importance, Molly, even if I've been lousy at demonstrating that."

"Worse than lousy. Horrendous. Until a few months ago." She smiled softly and turned her hand to squeeze his, noticing the spark in his eyes as she did. "Why would you picture this? I mean – not the place, that's obvious, but me, like this...I know you don't – you never felt -"

"You asked me what I wanted," Sherlock interrupted. He swallowed hard, turning towards the fire as if the words had suddenly become too much for him. Molly waited, trying not to notice the dull ache in her chest at seeing him struggle to speak. "My flat, my hearth, my chair," he added with a crooked smile.

Molly waited a beat, then squeezed his hand gently to draw his attention back to her. "It's more than that, isn't it?"

Sherlock rose, shifting her in the chair just enough to sit down and slide her onto his lap. She curled up again, now with her cheek against his shoulder. Sherlock's arms came tightly around her, as if he feared she might try to slip away from him.

"I admit that we've sampled a pleasant and varied range of sexual experiences and contrary to my brother's and John's suspicions I haven't entirely avoided this in real life, albeit some time ago." Molly felt him press a gentle kiss to her hair. "But until you, Molly...no one has ever attempted to actually – "

She cupped his cheek, touching her forehead to his, the simple gesture more intimate than any time they had touched each other before. But she knew what he meant. Oh, she knew. "To love you. Be in love with you, with all of you, not just the lovely parts of you but the prickly ones too."

"Do you know I thought you couldn't possibly want that?" He gently tucked her hair behind her ear, kissed her brow with more tenderness than she would have expected. "I doubted my ability to reciprocate, obviously, but I also believed your fondness was for some ideal of me that didn't exist."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure it's possible for any ideal of you to last past the first fifteen minutes of meeting you, Sherlock. You could have had this, if you wanted it."

"Not likely, or not for long. I would get bored, or I'd do something to hurt you, and while you are remarkably loyal, Molly, I think we all know that there comes a point where an apology will not suffice. Naturally you must also consider the external danger element, which you may have noticed is not exactly minute."

Molly unbuttoned his shirt just enough to lay her hand over his heart. "I would have risked it – maybe not for just anyone. But for you."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly, the way it did when he'd missed something. "Didn't you want to get married, have children?"

Molly shrugged. "I suppose, with the right man." She straightened up a little, cupping his cheek gently for a kiss, unable to resist the temptation to thread her fingers through his curls. "But the fact is that I fancied you, and you weren't the right man for all that." She raised an eyebrow. "At least I didn't think you were but as you said, this is quite domestic."

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile as Molly toyed with his collar. "Just don't look in the fridge," He said. After carefully setting her on her feet, he hopped up himself, grabbing her hand to pull her towards his bedroom. 

He closed the door behind them, and Molly saw a flash of nervousness pass through Sherlock's eyes. The previous dreams were lush, ornate fantasies and this was quiet and intimate by comparison. This wasn't Sherlock showing off, but Sherlock showing her his heart. Buoyed by that thought, Molly reached for him, raising herself on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I know just what you'd need, after a case like the one you had today," Molly said, keeping her voice soft so that Sherlock would have to listen. "You'd be tired, of course, but you'd want to tell me all about how brilliant you were, and you'd be wired with the nervous energy you didn't burn off running around London." Molly began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt, trying not to think about how warm and real he felt beneath her fingertips. He dipped his head to kiss her again, pouting a little when Molly pulled away after only a few seconds. She trailed kisses across his chest, looking up at him playfully.

"If you really had a case, you'd probably just keep talking. Until I got to right about here – " She tugged at his trousers – "And then you might notice what I was up to."

"I think I'd notice before that," Sherlock replied, slowly backing her towards the bed. "You're actually rather difficult to ignore with all of that kissing." He demonstrated, his large hand cradling the back of her head as her thighs hit the mattress. His hips ground into hers, arousal slowly making itself known and putting a hot flush over Molly's skin. 

"We don't have to rush," She told him firmly, although she was already having a difficult time trying not to breathe like she was running a marathon. "This isn't only about sex. It's another way we take care of each other."

Sherlock paused, tilting his head as he squinted slightly at her. "Take care of me?"

"Of course." Molly stretched up, resting on her elbows to press teasing kisses along his jaw. "I'm not just in this for me – I want you to enjoy it, to feel...good, for lack of a better word." She sat up, wrapping her leg around his to hold him in place as she nuzzled his chest and tugged out his shirt tail to slide her hands beneath the material. Sherlock shivered as Molly teased a nipple with her tongue. His cock was fairly straining at his trousers now, every bit as tightly as his shirts ever had. She dragged her nails lightly up his back before she tugged his shirt down, tossing it to the floor.

"Theft and abuse of my clothing," Sherlock teased, before unfurling the sash of the dressing gown that hung nearly to her ankles. His eyes traced over her form, seeming to study each freckle and scar in a way she hadn't recalled when he had actually been in her bedroom. As if he was committing her to memory, Molly realized, and suddenly her heart ached so much that she thought she might cry. The knot in her chest tightened as he took her in his arms again, meeting her mouth in a warm, lush kiss, but then she let herself be distracted by the feeling of his beautiful hands caressing her skin. His fingers pressed into the flesh of her bum, gently cupped and palmed her breasts, and Molly wasn't sure quite when she had ended up on her back in the middle of the bed. Or where Sherlock's trousers had gotten to – he really was quick about that.

Indeed, his cock lay heavy and thick against her thigh, his mouth hot against her neck. Molly shuddered, thrust her hips up to urge him on.

"Who's in a hurry now?" Sherlock teased. He nipped at her ear, fingers pressing into her hips as she writhed against the mattress. Molly's breath quickened, and she threaded her hand into his curls, letting herself enjoy the heat of his skin against hers. She gasped as his thigh slid between her legs, pressure falling just where she wanted it most. That was only a brief pause, however, before Sherlock moved to lavish attention below her collarbones, his hands delicately stroking along the underside of her breasts, before catching her nipples between his fingers in a playful squeeze.

This wasn't supposed to be about her though, and Molly gently pressed against his shoulders, rolling them over until she could pin him down, watching his eyes light up at the challenge. From her new vantage point, she could see her reading glasses folded up on the nightstand, a cardigan draped over the valet in the corner. 

"We shared space, in the lab. You never seemed – disruptive." Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed. "I thought I might be comfortable with you. I'm not around most people."

"Mmm. It might be tough here and there. But that's the nice thing about dreams. You don't have to do the legwork." Molly smiled and kissed him, hoping he could sense the tenderness she felt for him. She grazed her fingernails over his chest, lightly stroking along his muscular torso until he shuddered and jutted his hips towards her. Molly inched backward until she could just grasp his erection, hot and firm in her hand. He really was the perfect fit for her, she thought as she stroked him, and she'd only gotten to experience the real thing once. 

"Molly." She froze as Sherlock grasped her thigh tightly. "I realize you want to draw this out but I fear I am going to be utterly compromised if I have to wait any longer." Molly bit her lip and nodded, wriggling her hips a little to get into position and guide him inside her. She shuddered as she sank down, savoring every inch of him as she watched Sherlock tip his head back in pleasure against the pillows.

She grinned, thinking about how much she loved seeing him like this, his cheeks flushed as his hands scrambled to grab and touch and stroke anywhere he could reach. Molly groaned when his clamoring hands landed in ideal spots, one hand cupping her breast and teasing a nipple while the other teased along her inner thigh. Not as out of it as he looked, Molly realized, when he splayed one hand along the crease of her hip and pressed his thumb against her clitoris. Growing dizzy with pleasure, she was almost disappointed with how quickly she came, her body pulsing tightly around his cock as the pleasure seemed to spiral up her spine. 

"My turn," Sherlock rumbled, and had her on her back before Molly could even answer him. He moaned as he thrust deeply inside her, his breath hot against her ear. Molly drove her hips up to meet his and grabbed a handful of his curls, using it to lever his neck into a place where she could suck a bruise into the place where his pulse throbbed. She pulled her knees back, trying to create space to get him even closer to her, and squeezed her thighs around him. Molly watched as he lost himself, every barrier he had ever constructed between them dissolved in their mutual pleasure. She waited as he caught his breath, surprised when he took one last hungry kiss from her lips. He rolled onto his back, splaying his limbs like a starfish so that his forearm flopped over her face. Molly nudged his arm aside and he smiled playfully at her, so she curled up against him, tracing her fingers along his chest, imagining the path of the blood pulsing through his heart. 

"That was actually rather...fun. Would it always be like that?" he asked quietly. "If we were...together?"

Molly smiled. "No. Sometimes we'd be so desperate for each other that we can barely get any clothes off. And frankly if you were walking around in a sheet like John said you did I don't think I could be held responsible for my actions. But sometimes we can't quite get there and we just want to be close to each other. And that's fine, too. It's not just about tab A into slot B, and all that."

"Good to know," Sherlock said quietly. He drummed his fingers against her lower back. "Admittedly people generally don't move in to my mind palace. I'm surprised by how well you fit." 

"I always tried to stay out of your way. Perhaps I just know where to be," Molly replied with a gentle smile, as the haunting feeling that their time was running out slowly creeping into her mind. 

"Yes, I think – you're quite right. We are coming to the end of this particular experiment." Sherlock shifted onto his side, cupping her neck and jaw with one firm hand. Molly waited, sensing that he had something else to say.

"This might be sentimental twaddle, Molly, but you notice how I feel as much as what I do or say and the list of people who do that is understandably short. And because of that very unique quality of yours, I was not alone, even when I had to leave everyone who plainly mattered behind. No matter what I said, what I did, even before I understood this part of you. I was not alone on Bart's rooftop, and I was not alone in your bed. I'm not alone now, because of you. I can't tell you how much that surprises me, but it does, and it makes you – more remarkable than I ever expected. _Bright Star, were I as steadfast as thou art._ " He paused, blinking as though he'd just made a rather extensive deduction, "So as you can see, mutual susceptibility indeed."

Molly made a little scoffing noise, because this was as close to a declaration of fondness as Sherlock would ever grant her, and she knew what that meant. This was real – he was leaving, and this time they had no escape plan. She felt his arms slide around her, shifting onto his back again to pull her closer. She tucked herself beneath his chin, noting that she could feel the echo, the memory of his heart beating beneath his skin.

"I've never had you, not really. But I still don't know how I'm going to do this without you," Molly said quietly. 

"You will be more than adequate as a mother, Molly." Sherlock replied, his voice rumbling soothingly around her. "You said once – you said you loved me."

"Yes. I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but – you know what it's like."

"I'm never going to know, Molly. If I could love you back, if I could love any of this. I'm never going to know the child you'll have. And I- I am so very sorry for that." She wanted to answer, but couldn't fathom what to say. He already knew he could have anything he wanted from her. This was just further proof; he could even swallow up her life when he was nothing but a memory.

"Goodbye, Molly," he said softly into her hair, his fingers pressing just a little more tightly into her skin. She clung desperately to him, needing him to know that he was loved, he was wanted, as an overwhelming wave of sleep seemed to pull her under its surface, that deep sea of nothingness beyond her dreams that would wash all of this away.

Molly awakened to a misty, gray morning, aware almost immediately that something had changed. She ran her hand over her abdomen, finding that only a slight, puckering spot remained where the growths had rested all these months. 

Then she noticed the quiet. 

The rush and buzz of Sherlock's daily monologue had given way to an eerie emptiness. Outside there was traffic and the upstairs neighbor's alarm clock and Toby scratching at her bedroom door for breakfast, but internally her mind felt like a hollowed out echo chamber for her own thoughts. Her body was her own again...at least till the new tenant made his or her presence known.

"I'll miss you," Molly whispered into the morning air, painfully aware that the intended recipient of her words had no prayer of hearing them.


	14. Epilogue

Forty-one and a half weeks later, Molly Hooper lay half-asleep in the maternity ward of a hospital in Christchurch. In the bassinet beside her bed, little Lachlan (well, not so little Lachlan, she should have known Sherlock's child would show up late, have a bloody enormous head, AND decide to enter the world upside down) was currently sleeping soundly. She'd forsaken the numerous rather dreadful names Mycroft had suggested via text in favor of her own grandfather's name. Molly thought it was a perfect fit, honoring her family, but nearly quirky enough for a Holmes as well.

_Naps have always made me rather groggy. Perhaps he'll be the same._

Molly's eyes flew open. No. That wasn't possible.

_Lachlan Hooper. Seems a bit much but I suppose he'll grow into it. Apologies for the upside down bit, by the way. My mother could have warned you about that but I suppose it really wasn't appropriate to have her involved._

"You have got to be kidding me," Molly said in spiraling disbelief, then glanced over to make sure she hadn't woken the aforementioned son. Her son. "You aren't supposed to exist anymore."

 _Yeah, about that._ She pictured Sherlock's sarcastic, explanatory wince. _Apparently the genetic modification only allowed you to actively support one parasite at a time, which necessitated that I power down in order to allow our offspring to thrive. And thrive he has, eight pounds, nine ounces. Excellent work, Molly. Did you request to have the placenta dehydrated? Even if you don't want to consume it I'm sure it has some scientific value –_

"You're supposed to be _dead_ –" Molly heard her voice go up into a little shriek at the end, which resulted in Lachlan opening his eyes in surprise...and then starting to wail. "Oh, no – no, no, no, darling, it's all right."

Molly sat up and carefully lifted Lachlan into her arms, still terrified at how small he seemed, how much he needed her. She tugged at her gown with one hand, settling Lachlan in to nurse with efficiency she hadn't know she possessed until she suddenly found herself in charge of a very tiny person who liked to eat every two hours. 

_Not dead. Sorry about that._

"Shut up and let me enjoy my oxytocin, Sherlock." Molly stroked her son's feathery hair, and thought of her new house, her new lab, her new garden, and the little group of friends planning to come and fuss over Lachlan that very afternoon. "And welcome home."

 _Thank you, Molly._ With a gentle smile, Molly settled into the bed, watching as Lachlan's eyes slowly closed in contentment while he nursed.

_The impact of pregnancy and nursing on your breast size is remarkable, Molly. I trust your bonding is proceeding according to developmental norms._

With that, Molly sighed. It was going to be a very, very long life from here on out...but definitely not a lonely one.

_Fin_


End file.
